


The Subsequent Life and Opinions of Thomas Haxby

by ningloreth



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 52,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ningloreth/pseuds/ningloreth
Summary: Mr Haxby is obsessed with God, eternal damnation, and Miss Charlotte Wells—though not always in that order—and Miss Charlotte Wells is looking for a man she need not pretend with...Set towards the middle of an imaginary season 2.





	1. In which I experience another change of circumstance.

**Author's Note:**

> This story keeps pestering me, coming to me as Haxby/Charlotte vignettes—Damn you, Mr Haxby!—and although I have an idea where it's going, I haven't quite worked out the plot yet, so it's probably quite a long term project. I hope each vignette is still enjoyable.
> 
> In a past life I was a historian, though I specialised in a different period, so I do know how much I don't know about Georgian England! But I'm Googling a lot, checking the etymology of every word that rings an alarm bell, and trying to combine all that with canon.
> 
> _“Charlotte enjoys the teasing that comes with Haxby. It’s easy prey. Because he is so extreme and disapproving of her. Her reaction to that is, ‘If you think that’s shocking, I’ll shock you even more.’ Like she’d openly just decide to walk through semi-naked. Just to annoy him. It’s her way of having some kind of control.”_ Jessica Brown Findlay

When Lady Caroline dismissed me, and then proved steadfast in her determination to be rid of me, I used part of my savings to secure a room near the Inns of Court, and found employment as a scrivener, copying documents for members of the legal profession.

The work is time-consuming, tedious, and poorly paid, but it permits me to pay my rent in advance, eat regularly, have my linen laundered, and allow myself the occasional visit to Greene's chocolate house to read the news sheets, enjoy a cup of chocolate, and...

My life would be quite tolerable were it not for my nightly torments.

…

Day and night, I dream of her.

Awake, I am distracted by memories of her voice, her face, her body; sleeping, I see her in my nightmares, naked, tempting me, until I fall and awaken utterly degraded, drenched in sweat and soaked in my own emissions, and _still_ aching for her.

I have seen the corporeal Charlotte Wells only twice since the night she and I fought our last battle and she emerged victorious. Once, walking past Greene's, I spied her entering on the arm of some foppish fool I could see she despised. The second time, my work having taken me early to a certain part of the Town, I saw her returning, tired and dishevelled, to the house of one Lydia Quigley, a bawd who, my subsequent enquiries discovered, is notorious for her ill treatment of whores...

I try to banish Miss Wells from my thoughts, and return to my work.

“ _...some men feel their lust as hate_ ,” she whispers.

“Leave me in peace, woman!” I cry.

But Miss Charlotte Wells does not know the meaning of mercy. 

…

_Tonight, I have a different dream._

_I dream that Miss Wells knocks at my door and asks to be admitted._

_She does not explain why she needs shelter._

_She sleeps on my bed whilst I work. We share my supper. And then she takes my hand and, bringing it to her bosom, she says, “This is all I have to give you in return, Mr Haxby,” and..._

…

I am summoned to the chambers of Lewis and Lewis, Solicitors, by 'young' Mr Johnson, the ancient clerk. 

“His Grace has asked to see you,” he says.

“His Grace?”

“His Grace, the Duke of Malmesbury, whose affairs we are honoured to manage,” says Mr Johnson, enunciating the words as though speaking to a Bedlamite. “I trust you know how to behave in the presence of a peer of the realm?” 

I nod.

“Good. Then comb your hair, straighten your neckcloth, and try to make a good impression.”

There is nothing wrong with my hair, but I run a hand through it to appear willing, re-tie my neckcloth, and tap on the door of Mr Lewis senior's office.

“ _Come_ ,” he calls.

I enter, diffidently, and Mr Lewis performs a formal introduction.

His Grace, the Duke of Malmesbury, is a slight man of advanced years, dressed tastefully but unfashionably in a plain suit of chocolate-brown silk, his one extravagance being a cravat of sumptuous Flemish lace. Like me, he wears his own hair, tied neatly in a queue. His face is roundish and has a regularity that might make a fool think him foolish, but his dark eyes sparkle with intelligence, and with mischief in equal measure. 

My impression is of a man who charms because he _can_ command.

I bow, and rise to find him studying me. There is something unsettling in his regard; it is as though I were a prize animal he hopes to breed...

“Are you the Haxby,” he says, “that lately served Lord Howard and his widow?”

“I am, Your Grace,” I say, hoping he will not enquire too closely into the circumstance of my dismissal.

He appraises me again, and I begin to wonder if his tastes are natural.

“Mr Lewis tells me that you are the man responsible for copying my papers so meticulously, Haxby,” he says, “and that you recently drew his attention to a mistake in one of the originals.”

“I had that honour, Your Grace,” I reply, with a slight bow.

“Then I have a proposition for you, Haxby,” he says. “I have a library of several thousand books—some ancient, most of them recently acquired—family papers, maps of my estate, and so on, and I need a man to put them in order. I believe you would find the stipend generous”—he has obviously noticed my worn cuffs—“and there could well be another advantage associated with the situation.”

This last part convinces me that His Grace's tastes are _not_ natural, though I fail to see why a man who could, presumably, afford to keep an entire house full of catamites would have an interest in _me_.

“You need not give me your answer immediately, Haxby. Consider my offer for a day or two, and make your decision known to me by way of Mr Lewis.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” I say, because, on balance, I would rather spend my time fending off unwelcome advances—God knows, I have successfully ignored, save once, invitations more appealing than a Duke's—than face a life of drudgery and slow starvation in a garret in the City of London, “I do not need time to consider. I accept your generous offer, with thanks.” I bow deeply.

“Wonderful!” says His Grace. “Mr Lewis, make the necessary arrangements. I trust that Haxby, here, can be released from any copying-work he may currently have in hand.”

…

The next day, I arrive at Mereworth House, the seat of the Duke of Malmesbury, having spent the morning packing up my few possessions and quarrelling with the landlord over the return of the rent I had paid in advance, and having travelled in His Grace's carriage, which he kindly sent for me.

My box and bag are whisked away by the House boy, and I am shown to the Estate Office, where I am welcomed by the Steward, Mr Bowles, who tells me I am to join His Grace in the Orangerie for tea.

I enter the Orangerie cautiously. My previous master, Lord Howard, often confided in me, and could sometimes be inappropriately familiar, but he never went so far as to drink tea with me. I find His Grace sitting beneath an orange tree. With his small stature, and his plain suit of a peculiar purple-grey colour, he looks for all the world like a benevolent satyr, waiting for a nymph, or perhaps a shepherd, to enter his grove.

“Welcome, Haxby! Take a seat!” He gestures towards a chair and, nervously, I sit down. “We are just waiting for the lady of the house—ah, here she is!” he adds, with genuine delight.

I hear the rustle of silk accompanied by light footsteps, and then: “Mr Haxby...?”

I would know her voice anywhere and, I am so surprised, I not only turn my back on His Grace, I cry: “Miss Wells!”

In all of my imaginings she has never appeared so lovely. She is dressed in a gown of sea-green silk, which contrives to be both modest and yet not _quite_ , she is neither painted nor patched, but her cheeks have a natural flush, and her luxuriant hair, though uncovered, is arranged neatly, in a soft, simple style, with rolls that fall over one shoulder.

Like a simpleton, I turn to His Grace for an explanation.

“I gather, Haxby,” he says, “that you are already acquainted with Miss Wells?”

“He is,” Miss Wells answers and, knowing her as I do, I can see that she is as surprised to see me as I to see her.

“Haxby is to be our librarian, my dear,” says His Grace to Miss Wells. “And, in addition to sorting and cataloguing the books, he will assist you in your demonstrations. I shall leave it to you to instruct him.”

“Demonstrations, your Grace...?” I look from His Grace to Miss Wells. She has the most peculiar expression on her face; we are both aware that the boot is now on the other foot.

“Demonstrations of a philosophical nature, Mr Haxby, for His Grace's friends,” she says, as though that makes my fate any clearer. 

…

“I hope you will be a good boy,” says Miss Wells, the moment she and I are alone together, heading for the Library, “and learn your lessons well, Mr Haxby.”

“Will you _birch_ me if I do not, Miss Wells?” I find myself replying.


	2. In which I ponder life's vicissitudes.

So there we have it: I am to be Miss Wells's _assistant_. 

Such is the irony of life.

Miss Wells does not tell me what acts I shall be required to perform with her for the pleasure of His Grace and friends; I believe she revels in my ignorance. 

She shows me the Library, with its thousands of books, shelved in no particular order, its chests of papers, and the catalogue ledgers, which some half-wit has previously attempted to amend, adding more ink blots to the pages than entries.

“He had neither your precise mind nor handwriting, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, tartly.

Then she bids me examine some of the Duke of Malmesbury's most prized volumes. It seems His Grace is teaching her Latin, and that she is now quite proficient in certain aspects of natural philosophy, including something called the 'Linnaean System'. 

“But Malmesbury's chief interest,” she tells me, “is in steam.” She leads me to one of the windows, and directs me to look, past the formal gardens, beyond the ha-ha and the landscaped park, to the distant hills, where a plume of smoke marks some sort of industry.

“A Newcomen engine,” she says, “pumping water from the workings, day and night. It never tires, Mr Haxby, never stops at all, save when it's in need of repair. The water it raises,” she adds, “feeds the navigation...”

I watch her as she describes the wonders of steam power and its role in His Grace's enterprises, and I marvel at the way she has transformed herself to please a keeper who values intellect in a woman; a keeper who, in that and in, no doubt, most other respects, could not be more different from Lord Howard.

“Now, Mr Haxby,” she says, “I must speak with the Housekeeper. I shall leave you to explore by yourself. You will take breakfast and dinner in the Servants' Hall, but you'll sup with Malmesbury and me in the Small Dining Room, for His Grace likes conversation in the evening. Supper is at eight o'clock.”

I think she is taken aback when I bow.

“This will be something like old times,” she says.

When she is gone, I turn to the books, and survey the task that lies ahead of me. I am a lawyer by training and have scant knowledge of literature, and no knowledge at all of botany, geography, or the other branches of natural philosophy, but I shall learn. 

If Miss Wells can master a Linnaean System, then so can I.

…

At supper, I realise I could not have been more wrong about His Grace. 

He is no pederast, but a man who loves a woman young enough to be his granddaughter, a woman who adores him—for _I_ know Miss Wells, and I know she does not, in this, dissemble—but who cannot give him the conjugal love he longs for.

There is much to admire in him. He has come to terms with life's cruelty, and seems to take delight in every little thing Miss Wells is able to give him; in that, he is nothing like the young bloods I have observed, who believe that wealth and rank give them licence to behave exactly as they please, and always, it seems, with ruthless disregard and with carnal excess...

Where _I_ fit into His Grace's plans, however, I cannot now imagine.

His Grace and Miss Wells are easy with one another, and their company is surprisingly pleasant. For the first time, I—who in all other respects know her so well; better than I have any right to know her—experience what it is like to be beguiled by her, to have her flirt with me, coax opinions from me, and use her wit to put me at ease.

No wonder Miss Charlotte Wells was for so long the toast of the Town. 

No wonder that living with Sir George drove her to excesses of drink and gambling.

I cannot, of course, condone her past.

But I am now seeing a side of Miss Charlotte Wells to which I was formerly blind.

…

My room is next to hers.

I undress down to my shirt, roll up my sleeves, pour water into the bowl, and wash. 

As I am drying my hands, I catch sight of myself in the mirror: eyes like flints and dark hair, which, as usual, has slipped its tie and is seething around my head like a gorgon's snakes. When I was a young student at law, several maids seemed to think me presentable, but whether...

With a sigh, I hang up my coat and apply the brush to it, being careful not to damage the cuffs any further. My stipend includes three new suits per year, and Miss Wells has summoned His Grace's tailor to measure me tomorrow.

So often, I have wondered what might have happened had I behaved differently that night.

Would Miss Wells have decided to stay in St James's Square?

Would Lord Howard still be alive?

I set my candle on the bedside table, and climb into bed. The sheets are crisp and smell faintly of lavender...

Miss Wells assaulted me in the most whorish way possible, and I responded by showing her that I was _not_ the feeble eunuch she supposed me to be. I felt her passion, in her kisses, and in her body, and I am sure she must have felt mine. Afterwards, I knew that she was watching me, waiting for me to admit that things had changed between us.

But I did not.

I _would_ not give her the satisfaction.

“ _...because some men feel their lust as hate..._ ”

I blow out the candle.

Later that same night, I lay awake, my body luxuriating in the physical satisfaction she had given me, my thoughts a tumult of—I admit it—fondness, and desire—much desire—but also of overwhelming guilt, of shame, and of remorse.

The next morning, she gave me a second chance to make a declaration.

Instead, I taunted her.

“ _...because some men feel their lust as hate..._ ”

And then our sin, mine and Miss Wells's, led inexorably to Lord Howard's death, to Miss Wells's imprisonment, and to my own disgrace and dismissal.

I no longer believe her guilty of murder, though I _know_ she knows more of Lord Howard's death than she pretends, and I believe she would have gone to the flames to protect the murderer. At first, I thought it must be her Irish lout, but now I am convinced it was her 'Pa'. He is the sort of big, gentle man who becomes a tyger when one he loves is harmed. He would surely have made Lord Howard pay for forcing his daughter, and she, in turn, would surely have risked all for _him_...

 _I_ saw the violation, just for a moment, before I hurried from the house: Miss Wells lying like a rag doll upon the bed, Sir George's hand pushing her face into the mattress, his body battering hers.

I cannot say that she is not a sinner, nor that sins do not find their own reward, but...

When Lord Howard forced her, he was trying to take from her the very things that make her herself, the very things he professed to love. _Our_ union, hers and mine, bore some resemblance to violation, but it was not. _We_ were equals, each determined to better the other, until the pleasures of the flesh asserted themselves and overcame us. What _I_ did to her was a sin, a spot upon my own soul and upon hers, but I did not violate her.

And if, afterwards, she was distressed, it was not for that reason, but because I refused to admit that she had proved her point.

I claimed the victory in a battle I had not won.

“ _...because some men feel their lust as hate..._ ”

…

I toss and turn. The room is elegant and spacious, and does not suffer from the damp, the draughts, and the vermin that plagued my room in the City, but it is unfamiliar.

And I know that Miss Wells is lying only yards away, naked save for her shift.

I have seen Miss Wells in many states of undress, for she enjoyed taunting the eunuch, and I have joined my body with hers, but I have never held her in my arms _sans_ stays—

_Oh, dear God!_

_Is it You who tests me?_

Or is it the devil, tempting me to lose my soul for the delights of Miss Wells's body?


	3. In which I am again seduced by Miss Wells.

In the Servants' Hall, at breakfast, one of the footmen ventures to suggest that, although it is common knowledge His Grace is no longer a virile man, Miss Wells could 'raise' a dead man...

I jump to Miss Wells's defence before I realise what I am saying, but most of those present lend me their support with nods and grunts.

“You knew Miss Wells before, when she was a celebrated Beauty in the Town, did you not, Mr Haxby?” says the cook, as we rise from the table.

“I did, Mrs Brawne.”

The good old soul looks up at me oddly, then pats my arm.

…

As the weeks pass by, I find my place in the household.

During the day, I labour in the Library alone, save on those occasions when His Grace sends for me to join him, or when Miss Wells comes to annoy me. 

Miss Wells will ask me to show her the catalogue ledgers, putting a hand upon my shoulder as she looks, and leaning over me in the most provocative way. One day, having found me showing one of the maids an A,B,C—for I am much in demand as a tutor amongst the female staff—and having assumed the worst of me, she immediately sent the girl away, scurrying, then _flounced_ out of the Library, slamming the door so hard, my ears were left ringing for a full half-hour.

Most mealtimes, I eat with the servants. 

To them, I am an object of curiosity, since my family has not, like most of theirs, been in His Grace's family's service for generations. As a stranger, I am associated in their thoughts with Miss Wells and, because it is known that I knew her before, I am sometimes drawn into conversation about her: a footman will ask me whether I know her family, a maid will ask me to describe her accomplishments.

At first, I was surprised how readily the servants have accepted her but, after a few days, I realised that, although it is mostly out of love and respect for His Grace, it is also out of admiration for Miss Wells herself. I have overheard her defend a tenant to the Steward, discuss the dismissal of a Scullery maid with the Housekeeper, praise the cook for her white soup and her lobster, and give words of comfort to the House boy when he learned his brother was lost in the war. She is quiet but firm; she asks, she listens, and she decides. She has always known how to please a man; now, she pleases man, woman and child: she gives them orders and they thank her for it. 

Compared to Miss Wells, Lady Caroline is a mere dabbler.

In the evening, when His Grace has no guests, I sup with him and Miss Wells. These are the times when my eyes are opened to the world beyond Mereworth House, beyond the Town, beyond the law and everything _I_ have ever known or seen; when I learn of the great changes that are coming to society and industry; when His Grace weighs my opinions—opinions I had not hitherto known I had—the times when Miss Wells treats me as a man.

These are the times when I can almost say that I am happy.

Though my nights are, as ever, a battleground.

…

Today, the moment Miss Wells walks into the Library, I know there is going to be Trouble. I have often wondered why, of all the men in the world, it seems I am the only one she never seeks to please.

“I hear that you are up to your old tricks again, Mr Haxby,” she says.

“I do not know what you mean, Miss Wells,” I reply, without looking up from my writing.

She leans over my desk, tears the pen from my hand, and throws it across the room. “Malmesbury has given you a situation far beyond what you deserve,” she says, “and this is how you repay him?!” 

“I do not—”

“You know _exactly_ what I mean! You have been talking to the servants!” She grabs my shoulders and I am forced to look up at her. “You have been speaking of my past, questioning my affection for His Grace, and his for me.”

It is not true—if anything, I have concealed her past—and I rise from my desk to defend myself, but she is fierce: she pushes me, forcing me back until I am pinned against one of the bookcases.

Suddenly, neither of us can continue to ignore what once happened between us.

“ _...because some men feel their lust as hate..._ ” 

There is a long moment of silence, when everything seems to stand perfectly still, awaiting resolution.

Then I cannot be sure which of us reaches out first.

We wrestle like two ancient Greeks, bumping into bookcases, crashing into tables and chairs, knocking books to the floor, until Miss Wells abandons all rules of sportsmanship and, once again, grabs my member.

_Oh, dear God!_

Her hand is like a flame in my vitals. My nocturnal phantasies are _nothing_ compared to her touch. My body is hers, my mind is hers; I would let her lead me down to the Servants' Hall and display me to the entire household, if only she would keep her hand where it is now or, better yet, if she would—

_Oh, dearest GOD!_

She toys with me in ways that, despite my sinful youth, I have never known. 

I hear some hapless creature's sobs, and realise that I am hearing my own voice.

“ _Please_ ,” I beg, and struggle with her again until, somehow, I succeed in lifting her onto a table.

Our mouths meet, and we kiss hard until she yields, letting her head fall back in a kind of swoon, and I cover her throat, her breasts, and the precious cleft between them, with kisses.

“ _Mr Haxby_...” she moans.

I pull up her skirts, and enter her body; she wraps her legs around me.

Our congress is sharp and savage; two people striving to become one flesh.

And then it is over, and she is lying beneath me, and I am hunched over her, breathing hard, still wracked with sinful pleasure, and she reaches up and touches my face, and I open my eyes and look down at her, and I know that, this time, somehow, Miss Charlotte Wells has stolen away a part of me, and has left a part of herself behind in its place.

I lay my head on her bosom, and she strokes my hair.

“Now listen to me, Mr Haxby,” she says, her voice hoarse and soft: “you can spy on me, judge me, tell tales about me, and maybe one day you'll succeed in destroying me, if I haven't destroyed you first... _Or_ we can call a truce, keep our bickering between ourselves, and fuck each other whenever we get the urge. What do you say, Mr Haxby? Mm?”

…

Miss Charlotte Wells is a _she-devil_.

She has lured me upstairs to her bed and, importuning me to pleasure her again, she has pushed me down and, having clambered onto me, she is riding me shamelessly. I sit beneath her, holding her slender body, letting her use me till I can bear it no longer—till, with a savage cry, I must needs throw her onto her back, and ravish her.

I swear to God, she would turn the most devout of men into a beast.

“Wait,” she begs, “wait, wait—slow down! Slow down, and— _oh_ —oh yes—like that—like that! Yes!—yes!—oh, _YES_!”

…

Afterwards, she plies me with _sweetmeats_. 

“Make an effort, Mr Haxby,” she says, holding one to my mouth and pressing it against my lips, expecting me to feed from her hand, like a lap dog. “If you don't like marchpane, tell me what you do like and I will get it for you.”

“Do not treat me as your fancy man!”

“Would that _revolt_ you, Mr Haxby?” She eats the sweetmeat herself. Flushed and dishevelled, her limbs bare, her eyes twinkling, she has never looked more desirable; truly, a man's body is weakness made flesh.

But a woman should be virtuous.

“You have unnatural desires,” I say.

Miss Charlotte Wells laughs. “You think I have _desires_ , Mr Haxby?”

“I think you are desire itself, Miss Wells,” I say.

“You confuse what I am with what I arouse, Mr Haxby,” she replies, for she is a clever woman. “Shall I tell you something? Hmm? In my entire life, there have been only two men I desired. The rest... I _pretend_ , Mr Haxby. I am the Queen of Pretend. Making men think I desire them is what I am paid for. It's my living, just as counting, cataloguing, and toadying are yours.”

“Your Irish lout,” I say, because I cannot, at present, think beyond one part of what she has told me. “What other man have you desired?”

“You blockhead,” she says, and beats me with a pillow.

…

I eat some of her marchpane.

Then I pleasure her for the third time. 

“Fucking you, Mr Haxby,” she sighs, “is like fucking the Newcomen engine.”

Miss Charlotte Wells says things that would make a navigator blush.

Without her stays, her body is perfectly soft in my arms; I gather her close.

“You are the one man in all the world,” she says, yawning, “that I do not have to pretend with, Mr Haxby, for you have always seen me as I am, and have desired me even at my worst.”

I hold her until she is fast asleep, then, gently, I lay her on the bed, and lie down beside her.

Were I to die at this very moment, I would still be smiling as the devil and his demons were dragging me down to Hell.

I am a fallen man.


	4. In which I escort Miss Wells to the Town.

Today, His Grace has given Miss Wells leave to go into the Town, to shop and to visit her mother and sister. He has lent her his carriage and ordered me to escort her. 

His Grace does not know that I have been Miss Wells's lover these five days.

It takes every ounce of sinfulness I have in me to keep from throwing myself at his feet and begging his forgiveness; sinfulness, and—

“Deceit,” says Miss Wells.

— _sinfulness_ , and a sense that confession, whilst good for _my_ soul, could only injure _him_ the more—

“Which would be particularly cruel,” says Miss Wells, “since, every time we do it, it's going to be the last time, according to you.”

I look at her, sitting across the carriage, dressed more like her old self, in a gown of bright violet-blue, and a cloak of vivid pink, her skirts affording me glimpses of her shoes and stockinged legs... Is it perverse of me that her impudence is making me want her?

“You have always been perverse, Mr Haxby,” she says.

I wonder now how I withstood her blandishments for so long; it certainly wasn't out of respect for Lord Howard.

“You were protected by the sword of righteousness—” says Miss Wells, crossing the carriage, and sitting on my lap.

“I have lost it now!”

“—and the shield of priggishness.” 

I have no idea why her insults have begun to make me smile.

“I respect His Grace,” I tell her, “more than any man I have ever known.” 

Miss Wells strokes my hair. “He would not blame you, Mr Haxby,” she says, gently.

It is disingenuous of her to say so, but she is trying to be kind. 

The truth is, I am living my life in a miasma of my own sin, remorse, and carnal desire.

…

We visit the milliners, where I am expected to watch Miss Wells try on every hat in the establishment, and then advise her as to which is the most becoming.

We visit the stay-makers, where, vexed by my earlier behaviour in the milliners, she decides to humiliate me by making me hold each set of stays against my body so that she can better compare them. 

Then we visit _Negri's_ , in Berkeley Square, where she insists I sample the _diavoloni_ , the marsh mallows, the sugar plums, and a number of other, sickeningly sweet, confections, before she buys half the shop. When we leave the confectioner's, it is my job to carry her sweetmeats for her, packed into an assortment of boxes, all tied with bright ribbons.

Miss Wells is in a particularly ebullient mood. “Greene's, next,” she says. “We shall have chocolate.”

As we cross the square, she slips her arm through mine.

I know that she loves and respects His Grace but, today, she is careless of appearances, behaving for all the world as though she and I are sweethearts, touching me and teasing me. 

She is happy, I think, to be back in the bustle of the Town. 

I just hope she is not planning to drag me to Macall's and treat me to the spectacle of her drinking, gambling and being bawdy with her former friends.

Miss Wells laughs. “I do not, for one _moment_ , Mr Haxby,” she says, playfully, “believe that you have never gambled nor been drunk; you have certainly practised the quick fuck against a wall.”

“ _Charlotte!_ ”

I have not before used her given name but, on this occasion, she is being so crude, all else fails me. Her surprise is almost comical. And before she can recover and make fun of my exasperation, her name returns to us, like an echo with an Irish inflection: “Charlotte?”

It is the Irish lout she used to favour. 

He is dressed like a performing monkey, in red silk breeches, sky blue coat, and bright green hat; all that is missing is the collar and leash. He looks at her, then he looks at me and his expression changes, as though he has just noticed a turd stuck to one of his fancy shoes.

“You're with _him_?” he says to Miss Wells, pronouncing 'him' as though I, to whom it refers, am something obscene.

I glare at him.

“Mr Haxby,” Miss Wells says, softly, “would you...” 

She turns and, with her back to the Irish lout, she silently entreats me to give them space. Behind her, Mr Monkey is gloating. I console myself with the knowledge that _I_ have pleasured Miss Wells at _least_ ten times more than he, for we get the urge quite often. 

I bow to Miss Wells and, reluctantly, back away, remaining close enough to intervene should it be necessary, but too far away to hear more than the odd, softly-spoken phrase: “going to America,” “Lady Caroline,” “sour-faced weasel,” and “your grand scheme.”

When she rejoins me, her eyes are glistening. She takes my arm again, and says, “Let's go home.”

“But your mother and sister...”

“I'm not in the mood to visit Ma and Lucy today, Mr Haxby,” she says.

We walk back to the carriage along Pickadilly. 

She is melancholy now, and I want so much to hold her, to kiss her, to share with her that mortal sin which brings two people, however briefly, the comfort of union...

Instead, I ask: “What did he mean, your 'grand scheme'?”

“Oh, Mr Haxby,” she sighs. “When we're fucking, I trust you completely; I know you'll do nothing I don't enjoy. You are the best of men in that respect. But you would not _hesitate_ to betray a confidence, would you? To save your own skin, or to further your ambition? Or to _boast_?”

I say nothing.

“I dare not confide in you, Mr Haxby. I'm not blaming you,” she adds. “You're as much a harlot, in your own way, as I am—”

“I am not,” I begin, but the rest sticks in my throat. 

“—and a harlot must use whatever she has. She cannot afford favourites. A harlot is not to love or be loved...”

I am hurt by her refusal. For all her cleverness, Miss Wells does not see my constancy. I stay silent, but I _know_ , God forgive me, that I shall still be yoked to Miss Charlotte Wells when she and I are nailed in coffins.

And, as the carriage pulls out of the Town, I reach for her.

…

For her, I am learning to prolong the act, chiefly by thinking certain thoughts at certain times, as advised in one of the more distasteful volumes in His Grace's library.

It is another of my sins.

“Mr Haxby,” Miss Wells murmurs, her lips soft against my cheek, “we are almost home. You must finish it now.” She kisses my mouth.

I oblige her, and her cry is filled with such a wild satisfaction, it provokes my own crisis.

As we're tidying ourselves, she reaches up, and rearranges my hair. “You're a strange man,” she says.

I have no idea what she means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Town was the area around Covent Garden. Pickadilly is the spelling on a map of roughly the right date.


	5. In which Miss Wells dazzles all, and I assist.

The Duke of Malmesbury has invited his friends to supper and an evening of _electricism_.

There is Lord Graham and his virtuoso, Mr Black; Lord Robey, His Grace's oldest friend; Mr Spencer, who has just returned from the Orient with, I believe, a new method for decorating pots; and young Mr Chadwick, who, despite being the son of a draper and largely self-taught, is, Miss Wells tells me, already a man of some repute in philosophical circles.

Miss Wells presides over the gathering in a gown of pearl-grey silk, cut in the Roman style to reveal her bare arms and, tantalisingly, to fit like a sort of breastplate over her bosom. It is His Grace's own fancy, and, wearing it, Miss Wells is meant to represent _Venus_ , for that goddess is to be the theme of our entertainment...

…

When the time comes for our display, I help Miss Wells climb onto a low stool, and move His Grace's _electrical machine_ closer, until she is able to place her hands upon its _prime collector_ , a large, glass sphere.

I signal the servant to snuff out most of the candles and, in the dim light, I begin turning the machine's handle at a steady pace, rubbing the sphere against a silken pad, until a bundle of threads, held close to the glass by Miss Wells, becomes _erect_...

Turning then to our audience, Miss Wells smiles, raises both hands, and makes a great show of placing them upon the sphere.

“Who will be first to kiss the Electrified Venus?” she asks.

Mr Chadwick near pisses himself in his eagerness.

 _I_ have already tried it: as the man approaches the woman in her electrified state, a great spark of electrical fire leaps from her lips and hits him on the nose or, as in my case, on the mouth. I can confirm that the experience is painful, and of little interest to one who has had the pleasure of kissing Miss Wells often, and without benefit of electricity, though Mr Chadwick is sufficiently enamoured to insist upon attempting to kiss Miss Wells several times.

Then, in turn, the others try it.

Lord Robey, being a true gentleman, means to kiss Miss Wells's hand instead of her lips but, as he reaches for hers, his hand is singed by a spark.

Throughout the entertainment, Miss Wells makes every man feel like a king, laughing charmingly at his 'wit', and larding her replies with delicate innuendos. That touch of coarseness, that hint of gutter filth, coming from so perfect a creature—in the guise of a goddess—is the little leaven that leaveneth the whole lump.

She is dazzling.

His Grace's friends are as unlike Lord Howard's as men are unlike apes but, just the same, she is everything they long for: the perfect woman they can mould, teach, treat as they would a member of their own sex and still, to use Miss Wells's favourite word, _fuck_ —if they are fortunate.

But they can never, truly _have_ her.

Never _marry_ her.

Even young Mr Chadwick, the draper's son who still speaks broad Lancashire, would not risk damaging his prospects by marrying a harlot.

So she is always just out of their reach.

And, as if to prove the point, as I am helping her down from the stool, Miss Wells, in full view of her admirers, contrives to brush my cheek with her fingertips. 

…

  
The Electrified Venus  
…

When I am sure that there is no one to see me, I tap on Miss Wells's bedroom door.

She opens it, seizes my hand, and drags me inside. 

“Are you angry tonight, Mr Haxby?” she asks. “I have noticed that when your curls are wild, you temper is generally wilder.” 

She kisses me, passionately.

“My temper is never bad, Miss Wells,” I say, “save when _you_ provoke me,” and I guide her across the room.

“You,” she replies, “are easily provoked.”

“I am as a _saint_ compared to you,” I protest, lifting her onto the bed. “To think how long I endured your insults, your scheming, your constant _pinching_ —”

“Pinching!” she laughs.

“—your brazen attempts to seduce me—”

“You revelled in it, Mr Haxby!”

“—summoning me to Sir George's bedroom, lying there like a captive, flaunting your nakedness”—I lean over her and, reaching under her shift, I put my hand between her thighs—“with only a wisp of linen sparing me the sight of _this_.”

“And you,” she says, looking into my eyes, “did _nothing_ , as I remember.”

“I suffered.”

“It must have been very _hard_ ,” she says.

“You have no idea how hard, Miss Wells,” I reply, and gently move my fingers.

“Ah,” she gasps, “you are lucky to have such a—a skilful hand, Mr Haxby.” Her body twists, and she grasps my arms. “How does your—ah—your tongue compare?”

…

“Do you _ever_ stop babbling and _boasting_ of your sins?!” she cries.

Her prominent place in my prayers is always a source of great irritation to Miss Wells.

I have, in fact, finished praying, but I am not yet ready to rise from my knees for, in the calm that follows prayer, one may sometimes hear the voice of God...

“ _Come back to bed!_ ” She lifts the bedclothes and, obediently, I climb in beside her. “You are ice cold,” she grumbles, pulling me close and rubbing my back and arms.

Her effort warms my loins more than my limbs, but I do not act upon my bodily desires, for Miss Wells and I have already had extensive carnal relations, and I have just unburdened my soul.

Miss Wells settles back against the pillows. I lay my head upon her bosom.

“He could not believe I'm fucking you,” she says. 

I know she is speaking of Mr Monkey, and it pains me that she is thinking of him when I am in her bed. “Was it my sour face, or my belonging to the race of weasels that was the sticking point?” I ask, remembering the insults I overheard.

“ _Genus_ of weasels, Mr Haxby,” she says.

“I stand corrected, Miss Wells,” I say, lifting my head to smile at her.

She smiles back, and rewards me with a kiss. Then she says, quite casually: “No, it was your limp prick.”

I am not a violent man but, I swear to God, were he here before me, I would show Mr Monkey who is _limp_.

“I told him I have no complaints,” she adds, as though hearing my thoughts.

I try to breathe slowly and calmly. If I were to need proof of her preference for me, it would surely be that she is with me now, and not with him, but even that thought raises a worry: “What if Mr—what if _he_ gives us away?” I ask.

“Marney will not betray me, Mr Haxby. He stood by me in prison; he risked his neck for me.”

“Because he thought you were _his_.”

“Marney is not vindictive.”

Those words cut me to the very heart. 

“If you will not tell me of your 'grand scheme',” I say, “will you at least answer this, for I cannot believe you would ever harm His Grace, or that _he_ could possibly be the object of it: is His Grace a party to it?”

“Come here,” she says, drawing me back into her arms.

I am growing uncertain of what I mean to her, and to what purpose, exactly, she is using me, but only a fool would refuse to lie in her embrace.

“The Duke of Malmesbury, Mr Haxby,” she says, kissing the top of my head, “is my accomplice.

…

Later, Miss Wells awakens me from a most pleasant sleep.

Knowing her appetites as I do, I immediately rouse myself and, turning Miss Wells onto her back, I arrange my body upon hers, in a position I know gives her particular pleasure, all the while kissing her with fervour.

“No, no, Mr Haxby,” she says, laughing, “I only woke you to tell you that you must leave now—before the girl comes to light the fire.”

Her body is soft, and bears the warm scent of our earlier intimacies, and my body aches to join with it again.

“Mr Haxby,” she says, more firmly, “no! You must go! I cannot have the girl seeing you! I cannot risk— _oh!_ Oh, Mr _Haxby_!”

…

Afterwards, she does not punish me for my disobedience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was making up the whole 'rich man entertaining his friends using a beautiful young woman to demonstrate science' bit but it seems I wasn't! The Electrified Venus was real, though it's quite hard to get precise information about it. The low stool was an insulator, made, I believe, of pitch. I can't find out exactly how the electrical machine was operated -- it does seem to have depended on the skill of the operator, and I think Haxby would have needed to keep turning the wheel so that Charlotte could charge herself up repeatedly.
> 
> There is a BBC podcast about 'Electrickery' here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p004y269


	6. In which Mrs Haxby and I go to church.

“His Grace requires you in the Orangerie, Mr Haxby,” I am told by one of the footmen.

I complete the catalogue entry I am writing, wipe my pen, and hurry to answer His Grace's summons; it is unusual for him to send for me so early in the morning. I find him working at his botany table, taking cuttings from one of his exotic specimens and planting them in a row of small pots. 

“We have to match its native soil,” he tells me, for want of a better audience. “Each pot is filled with a different mixture of loam, sand, and other matter, and we will see which suits it best.”

“What of the native water, Your Grace?” I ask.

He looks up at me and smiles, but does not answer my question. I wait, wishing the Orangerie were not so warm, and that perspiration were not running down my back and soaking my shirt.

“Good,” says His Grace, at last, wiping the soil from his hands. “Now, I want to speak to you, Haxby, as one man to another.”

This is the very moment I have been dreading.

As a lawyer, I was taught that if you cannot argue that a thing did not happen, and you cannot argue that the thing is not culpable, then your only course of action is to plead mitigating circumstances. Miss Wells assaulted me—twice—and she continues to manipulate me, exploiting my weakness...

“Your Grace,” I begin, but then I falter, because I cannot—I _will_ not—pretend to be the harmless dupe when, in fact, it was _I_ who decided to respond to her assaults in the way I did. _I_ have seduced Miss Wells at least as often as _she_ has seduced me. She and I are equals in our sinning.

His Grace, in any case, waves his hand to indicate he intends to speak first, and sits down. 

“There are things going on in this house, Haxby,” he says, “things pertaining to Miss Wells—”

My throat is dry. “Yes, Your Grace...” I say.

“—things she may ask you to do with her, or for her—”

I am mortified. 

“—which _must_ be kept secret. I am asking you,” he says, “to give me your word, as a man, that you will reveal these things to no one.”

I stare at him; words will not form on my lips.

“Do you give me your word, Haxby?” he prompts.

“I... I do, Your Grace,” I stammer. What else can I say?

“Good. Then Miss Wells is waiting for you in the Library.”

…

In the Library, I find Miss Wells sitting at my desk, idly drawing swashes in the margins of one of my catalogue ledgers. As I close the door behind me, she looks up. 

“Why the sour face, Mr Haxby?” she asks.

I look at her flawless beauty and, suddenly, everything becomes clear.

“You have always delighted in humiliating me,” I say.

She frowns. “Have you spoken to Malmesbury? Have you given him your word?”

“How could I ever have let myself believe that _you_ would lie with _me_ , other than to spite me? Do you and His Grace enjoy laughing at me—oh, dear God, does His Grace like to _watch_ our congress?!”

She lays down my pen, and looks up at me as though I am a lunatick, though one she is fond of. “What in the world has got into that head of yours?” she asks. 

I can no longer bear to see her; I turn away and, grasping the back of the nearest chair, I squeeze until my knuckles turn white. Were I a different sort of man, I believe my heart would be breaking.

“What _am_ I to you?!”

“Mr Haxby,” Miss Wells insists, gently, “did you give Malmesbury your word?” She has come up behind me; she is mere inches away. 

“ _Of course I did!_ ”

“Thank God!” she sighs. “Then what is wrong—?”

With a cry, I turn and take her in my arms, claiming her mouth with angry kisses.

…

Some time later, I come to my senses; Miss Wells and I are lying, entwined, on the floor. Her hand is inside my shirt, and she is toying with the hairs on my chest.

She and His Grace may use me as they will; I cannot walk away from her.

I am doubly—triply—infinitely—damned.

“You are a _savage_ when you're angry, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells; she almost makes it sound like a compliment. “Now”—she gives my cheek a surprisingly brisk, business-like kiss—“the carriage is waiting for us, so _I_ must change into neat, plain dress, and _you_ must tame all this hair, put on some fresh linen, a white neckcloth, and your new black coat, and try to look your most priggish.”

The woman is baffling.

…

“Perfect,” she says, of my attire, an hour later, when I am handing her into the carriage.

She is dressed in simple brown cotton, with a plain white kerchief covering her neck and bosom. Her luxuriant hair is hidden beneath a white day cap, and she is carrying a wide-brimmed straw hat, such as a milk maid might wear. 

“Hmm,” she says, as I take the seat opposite her, “shall you be my husband or my brother? I think that, given your taste for fucking me, husband will be safer.” She is smiling.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “In what way, your husband?”

“You and I are to play a part, Mr Haxby. But, before I explain,” she says, “you must promise me you will not have another of your tanterums and ravish me again—or, at least, that you'll save the ravishing until we're on our way home.”

“I do not have tanterums,” I say.

“And nor is the grass green,” says Miss Wells. “Do you promise me?”

“I promise,” I reply, thinking that I have given my word quite enough for one day.

“Good. Then we are going to Marston Wood,” she says, “to speak to the parson about a former parishioner. You will tell him that you are the Warden of the Women's Hospital—”

“That is a complete lie, Miss Wells!”

“It is not a _complete_ lie, Mr Haxby, for His Grace makes the Hospital a generous donation every year, and would no doubt recommend you for the position were he asked.” She leans forward, and fiddles with my neckcloth. “You will enquire about a girl called Maria Elton, who left Marston Wood some six months ago. You will say that she has sought refuge at the Hospital, and that you wish to know something of her character, and whether she has family living in the village. I, your wife—”

“My wife...”

“—Mrs Haxby, will be at your side, to prompt you should your wits fail you.”

I am so apprehensive at the prospect of deceiving a man of the cloth, several moments pass before I think to ask: “Why do we not question the girl herself, Miss Wells?”

“We cannot question Maria, Mr Haxby,” she replies, “because Maria is dead.”

…

We leave the carriage at the bottom of the hill, and go the rest of the way on foot, Miss Wells on my arm. Marston Wood is a picturesque collection of half-timbered cottages surrounding an open village green. The church, with its fine spire, stands at one corner, with the parsonage sitting beside.

“Did you ever consider the Church, Mr Haxby?” asks Miss Wells as we approach the parsonage. A sudden gust of wind shakes the trees around us, and we are caught in a shower of yellow and russet leaves. Miss Wells's brown cloak swirls around her. 

Despite my misgivings, the walk has been very pleasant.

“I was raised to be Lord Howard's man of business,” I say, opening the parsonage gate.

“Pity,” she replies, as we walk down the path. “I can see you as a parson, Mr Haxby, preaching fire and brimstone, and filling your congregation with terror.” She smiles up at me. “I would be your dark secret; the harlot who visits you in the dead of night, and transports you to paradise—”

“Miss Wells! _Hush_!”

“I would be the reason you have never married, despite being the object of female desire throughout the—”

“ _Miss Wells!_ ” I grasp her arm and will her to be silent, for I will find it hard enough to lie to a parson without having had her put those ideas in my head. 

She smiles up at me; her smile corrupts me even as it is making me angry.

“You have read far too many novels,” I say, knocking at the door.

…

The door is opened by a young house maid, who shows us into the parlour before going to fetch Parson Greene. Whilst I sit nervously on the settle, Miss Wells walks about the room, studying the pictures and poking about on the mantelpiece but, by the time the parson joins us, she is sitting by my side.

“Mr and Mrs Haxby,” says the kindly old man as we rise to greet him, “the girl tells me you have come all the way from the Women's Hospital.”

“We have, sir,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it; beside me, Miss Wells curtsies beautifully.

“Please,” he says, and we resume our seats. “How can I help you?”

I look into his guileless face, and find my mind a blank. “My dear,” I say, “perhaps _you_...?”

“Of course, my dear,” says Miss Wells, with just a shade too much emphasis. “Parson Greene, the Hospital was recently petitioned by a Miss Maria Elton, formerly of this—”

“Alas, poor Maria!” says the parson.

Miss Wells and I exchange glances. 

“You knew her, sir?” I say, realising too late that I have used the past tense. “Before she left the village, that is.”

“ _I_ Christened her, Mr Haxby—I married her parents, Christened _her_ , and buried her father six months ago.”

“Do you know why she left the village, sir?” Miss Wells asks.

Parson Greene clasps his hands, nervously. “It is not, perhaps, a fitting subject for a lady's ears, Mrs Haxby.” He looks at me, her husband, uneasily.

“As the wife of the Warden of the Women's Hospital, sir,” says Miss Wells, quietly, and with a modest strength, “I have, sadly, witnessed many of the world's evils...”

“My wife is a remarkable woman, sir,” I say, wondering whether lying comes as easily to other people as it seems to come to me.

Parson Greene is persuaded. “Of course... Well, I believe she went looking for her mother, Mrs Haxby,” he says.

“In the Town?” Miss Wells and I say together.

“Mrs Elton was not from Marston Wood,” says the parson. “She was a most beautiful woman—as beautiful, if you'll forgive me, Mr Haxby, as you, Mrs Haxby—but she was, er”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“ _exotic_. I do believe she truly loved Mr Elton, but she could not be happy in a small village. She used to wear a _hat_...” He lifts his hands and holds them either side of his head to suggest something large and florid, and he smiles at the memory.

Miss Wells asks, softly: “Can you tell us her name, Parson Greene?”

“Rosalie,” he replies, stressing the name's final syllable.

“And you say you married her to Maria's father—do you remember her maiden name?”

“It may help us find her, sir,” I explain, when I see him hesitate again.

“Oh—oh that would be splendid,” says the old man. “If something could be done for her... I do not remember it, I am afraid, but it will be recorded in the Parish Register!”

Moments later, he returns from his study with Rosalie's maiden name written on a strip of paper: “Farrow,” he says. “Is what I have told you sufficient to help dear Maria, Mr Haxby, Mrs Haxby?”

I turn to Miss Wells for guidance.

“Miss Elton has been cruelly used, sir,” says Miss Wells. “But Mr Haxby and I give you our word that we will do everything in our power to obtain justice for her.”

…

“I should like to visit the church,” I tell Miss Wells as we leave the parsonage.

She takes my arm and we walk through the little churchyard.

Inside, the church is a haven of calm. The windows glow like jewels in the autumn sun, casting coloured patterns on the stone floor. Garlands of country flowers scent the air. I take a seat in one of the pews near the altar, bow my head, ask forgiveness, and offer a prayer for the soul of poor Maria Elton. 

When I open my eyes, I find that Miss Wells has joined me in the pew.

“Why did we not tell him that the girl is dead?” I ask.

“Because then he would have been too distressed to answer our questions,” says Miss Wells.

“What is Miss Elton to you, Miss Wells?”

“She is one poor, small victim of a group of very vicious men whom you and I and His Grace are going to bring down, Mr Haxby,” she says, with feeling. “We are going to destroy them utterly.”

…

We walk back to the carriage in the golden afternoon light. Marston Wood is a rural Eden, where life is as it should be, honest and simple; in the houses around us, shutters are being closed, wood is being carried in, and fires are being stoked as the villagers prepare for the long, chill evening.

I have much to think about but, as the carriage pulls away, I find myself imagining a life in that little parsonage, sitting by the fire, with Miss Wells—Mrs Haxby—sitting beside me, perhaps listening as I read to her—

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” says Miss Wells. “You'd read to me from The Bible. Every night.”

—criticising, with her sharp wit, my way of reading it; then I imagine myself taking her by the hand, and leading her upstairs—

“To commit some of those sins you so enjoy committing,” she says.

—and I experience a sort of revelation: “I am too sinful for the Church,” I say.

Miss Wells turns from the carriage window. “You, Mr Haxby,” she says, “are as upright and puritanical a man as the best the Church has to offer.” She smiles. “Though you do have a weakness for nailing cheap harlots to the wall.”

“All that is in the past,” I say.

“Can you be saying you don't think of fucking _me_ as fucking a harlot, Mr Haxby?”

I am taken aback, for she is right. “Perhaps I am saying I do not think of you as _cheap_ , Miss Wells,” I counter.

She laughs. “Did you also fuck respectable maids in this sinful past of yours? I imagine you were a pretty young man. The sort who makes an able seducer, for no woman can resist a pretty face.” 

She is jesting, I think, but she is closer to the truth than she realises.

“When we were living in St James's Square, Mr Haxby,” she says, settling back in her seat, “and Sir George and I used to provoke you, did you seek relief with one of the servant girls—”

“Miss Wells!”

“—or did you just...?” She curls her fingers into a loose fist and moves her hand up and down.

“That is a _vile_ sin, Miss Wells,” I say, “and one, thank God, I have not indulged in. I _prayed_.”

“No wonder you were always hissing like a steam engine, Mr Haxby. I'm surprised you didn't burst under all that pressure.”

...

I refuse to speak to the wretched woman for half of the journey home.

“I'm so glad,” she says, suddenly, as we are turning off the Oxford road, “that I _didn't_ goad you into fucking one of the servants, Mr Haxby, though I know I have no right to be feeling such relief.”

She is silent for a long moment, then she adds: “You and I were always fated—perhaps I should say cursed—to end up like this. We hate each other, we fight each other; we fuck each other, we lo—well... Whatever it is we do, we're two of a kind, Mr Haxby. We're like the pair of horses harnessed to this carriage.”

I look across at her; she stretches out her arms to me.

And I tell myself that any man who could resist her is no man at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist the early 18th century spelling of tantrum!


	7. In which Miss Wells and I visit her mother.

Miss Wells is lying in bed beside me, curled up against my body; I wake her, gently.

“ _Mmm_ ,” she sighs.

“I gave His Grace my word,” I say.

“Mmm,” she replies.

“And I thought he was talking about you and me.”

“Mmm?”

“But he was not. He was talking about the likes of Maria Elton and Parson Greene, for you have initiated me into your grand scheme, have you not? It is your grand scheme that I must at all costs keep secret. And you had me give my word to His Grace because you will require me to lie, and to—to do the Lord only knows what else, and you did not think that my giving my word to _you_ under such circumstances would sufficiently bind me.”

“Clever Mr Haxby!” 

Miss Wells rolls onto her back and stretches, and, with all the natural sensuality of an animal, she smiles up at me, inviting me to pleasure her again.

My body is eager enough, but I hesitate to reward her scheming, until Miss Wells settles the matter by grasping me in her usual, direct manner—

“Oh! Miss Wells, have a care!”

…

Later the same day, Miss Wells drags me from the Library and takes me into the Town, for she wants me to hear something her mother has to say. 

“Shall I be required to lie to her, Miss Wells?” I ask.

“Is lying to a sinner a sin, Mr Haxby?”

“Of course...!” I try to explain to her that the sin lies in the _liar_ , and in his intention, not in the nature of his victim, but she distracts me with kisses.

“No, you will not be required to lie to her, Mr Haxby,” she assures me, later, “just to listen.”

The bawdy house in Soho is more elegant than the old house, but its purpose is just as vile, and Margaret Wells makes no attempt to hide her dislike of me.

“What you doing with _him_?” she asks her daughter.

“Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, “is one of us now.”

Despite the degradation that implies, I find myself smiling as I walk past Margaret Wells.

Mrs Wells follows us. “What about the _Duke_?”

“We're a _ménage à trois_ , Ma,” says Miss Wells. “That's French. It means there's three of us.”

“You mean the Duke does the paying and _this one_ does the fucking?” says Margaret Wells, making it clear she thinks her daughter could have found a better man to discharge the second duty.

I hope she cannot see that this is the first time I have heard of any such arrangement.

“We're here about Amelia Scanwell, Ma,” says Miss Wells, slipping an arm through mine. “I need you to tell Mr Haxby what happened.” She guides me into the parlour and bids me sit down on a sofa, whilst she goes to the sideboard and pours a glass of brandy.

“I know you _don't_ , Mr Haxby,” she says, softly, “but I think you might need this.” She sits down beside me. 

Margaret Wells, meanwhile, has taken a seat opposite; Mr North is standing in the doorway.

I swallow some brandy, and immediately feel my wits assailed. I am not used to strong liquor and I cannot imagine what benefit Miss Wells thinks I will derive from it; I resolve to drink no more.

“Tell Mr Haxby what happened between you and Justice Cunliffe, Ma,” says Miss Wells.

Margaret Wells looks at me shrewdly. “A woman in my position, Mr Haxby, is sometimes accused of crimes she did not commit—”

I accept the fiction with a bow of the head.

“—and summoned before a Justice.”

She rises from the sofa, crosses to the sideboard, and pours two brandies. Watching her, it occurs to me that she must once have been an attractive woman.

“Justice Cunliffe wanted a _quid pro quo_ —wanted me to procure for him a virgin girl—not for his own use, you understand, but for the sport of certain well-born friends.”

I turn to Miss Wells. “The men you intend to bring down.”

“They call themselves The Spartans,” she replies.

“Justice Cunliffe had already selected a girl,” says Margaret Wells, handing a glass of brandy to Mr North. “Amelia Scanwell, the daughter of a friend of mine—a God-fearing lady, who runs a House of Penitence for fallen girls. Justice Cunliffe instructed me to take Miss Scanwell to an address in Denmark Street, where a carriage would come to take her away.”

“You believe this is what happened to Maria Elton,” I say to Miss Wells.

“Told you he was clever, Ma,” says Miss Wells. “Something like,” she says to me.

“But not at _my_ hand,” says Margaret Wells.

“They have more than one procuress,” I say. “What happened to this Amelia Scanwell?”

“She agreed to act as bait, Mr Haxby,” says Margaret Wells. “Mr North waited in the house with us, in case there should be any trouble, and my friend Nancy Birch fetched the constables and Justice Cunliffe's own clerk, as a witness. The trap was set.”

“But...?”

“It was sprung too soon,” says Miss Wells. “Justice Cunliffe tried to run, and his accomplice stabbed him to death—”

“And disappeared,” I say. “I remember reading of the murder in the news sheets.”

“Disappeared like smoke, Mr Haxby,” says Margaret Wells, and she smiles, but the smile does not reach her eyes.

“ _He_ is the man we need to find, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells.

“How came His Grace to be involved in this?” I ask. It occurs to me that I have never before thought to question how a man as moral and upright as His Grace had come to know Miss Charlotte Wells and become a harlot's keeper.

“Mr Haxby and I are going for a walk, Ma,” says Miss Wells, taking my brandy from me, and downing the liquor herself.

…

We cause a minor stir in St James's Park, Miss Wells and I: she in her harlot's pink and I in my servant's sober black. Miss Wells is beautiful, and still sufficiently notorious to turn heads, and her admirers also stare at me, wondering who this fellow-of-no-account can be that she is walking with.

“In future, we must dress you up like a baronet,” she says.

“Are you going to tell me about His Grace?” I ask.

She takes my arm. “A year ago,” she says, “I was working in a house owned by a woman named Lydia Quigley.”

“I have heard of her,” I say.

Miss Wells looks up at me. “Heard what?” she asks.

“Only what a fellow in Greene's chocolate house could tell me of her: that she beats and starves her harlots, and keeps them locked up.”

“All that, and worse,” says Miss Wells. “Why were you asking about her?

I cannot think of a lie: “Because I saw you returning to her house, one morning,” I confess. “And I wanted to know—”

“You were watching over me!”

“I _happened_ to see you.”

“You were watching over me.” Miss Wells squeezes my arm; her expression is a mixture of amusement and, I think, affection. “I had a regular cull at Mrs Quigley's, Mr Haxby,” she says. “Lord Hawton. Mrs Quigley was hopeful he'd become my keeper.”

“Thank God he did not,” I say. “I once saw him, at one of Lord Howard's drunken supper parties, set light to a horse's tail and laugh when the poor beast fled in terror. It took three of the stable lads to catch it, and it was so badly burned it had to be slaughtered. He gave Lord Howard fifty pounds in compensation.”

“Sounds like him,” says Miss Wells. “Fortunately for me, Mr Haxby, he used to take me to Macall's and, one night, I met Malmesbury, on one of his rare trips to London. Hawton had left me to my own devices, as usual, and His Grace came and sat beside me.”

I imagine the scene: for His Grace, it must have been a _coup de foudre_ , exactly as it was for me the first time Sir George brought her home—

“Mr Haxby?” I have stopped walking, and Miss Wells is looking up at me with concern. “Are you unwell? Shall we sit?” 

I let her fuss; she leads me to a bench, and we sit down.

“His Grace is such a small, quiet man,” says Miss Wells, thoughtfully. “But Lord Hawton did not dare challenge him—”

“None dare challenge His Grace,” I say. “It is not just his rank, or his wealth; it is his demeanour.”

“We talked all night—exactly as he talks to _you_ after supper, Mr Haxby—about politics, and society, and the great changes that are coming. He showed me,” she begins, and I know exactly what she is going to say next, “that _I_ had thoughts and opinions of my own. The next day, he offered Lydia Quigley a thousand guineas on my head.”

“A far better remuneration than she deserved,” I say.

“Mmm,” Miss Wells looks about us. “You know, I came here once with Sir Christopher Rutledge, hoping _he_ would offer to be my keeper. But all he wanted was to do it in the bushes.”

“You are safe from that now,” I say, softly.

“With His Grace to do the paying and you to do the fucking?”

“Are you unhappy?” I ask. I am not, myself, the sort of man who feels _happiness_ , but I am content with my life at Mereworth House, with my work in the Library, with my conversations with His Grace, and, of course, I am more than content to be Miss Wells's lover. But perhaps _she_ finds _me_ unsatisfactory; perhaps she longs for her Irish lout...

“You perform your duties admirably, Mr Haxby,” she says. “To think I used to suppose you cunny-beaten!” She lifts a hand, and gently touches my face. “You know, if _you_ wanted to do it in the bushes, I think I might.”

“I would never ask that of you,” I say.

“I know.”

We sit for a long time, doing nothing more than enjoy the autumn sun. 

“When I told His Grace about The Spartans,” says Miss Wells, at last, “and about Amelia Scanwell, and certain things I'd overheard at Lydia Quigley's, he helped me devise a plan to end it all.”

“Did you need to bring me _here_ to tell me that?” I ask.

“Maybe I just wanted to be alone with you,” she says.

…

We find Miss Wells's family in the tavern.

From my vantage point, at one of the tables, with a barely-touched tankard of the most disgusting ale before me, I watch Miss Wells romp with her friends until, laughing, she falls upon my lap and, throwing her arms about my neck, she kisses me with a fervour more appropriate to the bedroom. 

She is very drunk.

“Oooooo,” says another female voice, “A'd like to see what's in _'is_ britches! _Something_ must be worth them kisses!”

“Keep your 'ands off him, he's mine,” says Miss Wells, with a bawdy laugh. She leans back and pointing at me, she adds, “This is 'is _sour_ face.”

The other woman roars, and Miss Wells kisses me again.

“How much have you had to drink?” I ask, when the harlot has moved away.

“Not enough to ruin your hat,” she replies, which is, I believe, less than half the truth.

“We are going home,” I tell her. “Say your good nights.”

“Yes, _sir_.” She gives me an impudent salute, climbs off my lap, and totters off to speak to her family. 

I watch her embrace her mother and father, and her younger sister. When she is disarmed and vulnerable—after a crisis, or in one of her occasional bouts of melancholy, or even, as now, when she is drunk—my feelings for her are almost painful.

“What d'you think you're playing at?” 

I turn towards the voice; it is Mr Monkey, the Irish lout, glaring down at me.

“I thought _you_ would be busy servicing Lady Caroline,” I say. “Heaven help the poor woman.”

“Stay away from Charlotte, you prickless weasel,” he says, looming over me, his hot, beery breath in my face. “She doesn't like you, she doesn't want you, and if you give her so much as a moment's hurt, I will come for you, and I will make you wish your father had been castrated.”

“Very thorough,” I say. 

Mr Monkey grabs me by the neckcloth and hauls me to my feet.

“Do you think,” I gasp, as he twists the cloth tighter, “that Miss Wells would want this?!”

Fortunately, the brute decides that she would not and, with a grunt of contempt, he throws me to the ground before I expire. I hit the stone floor with a painful thud, and lie upon the filth, winded. Mr Monkey walks away.

“Mr Haxby!”

Miss Wells rushes to me, and flops down beside me. I am angry—bruised and covered in filth, thanks to her Irish lout—and I am about to push her away when I see her eyes, filled with tender concern, and feel her hands, so gentle on me, and I let her take me in her arms.

“Pa,” she calls, “help me get Mr Haxby to the carriage.”

…

“I think there's horse shit in your hair,” says Miss Wells, picking at something and dropping it from the carriage window. “We must bathe you, Mr Haxby. I will have a bath brought to my room. Come to me when the servants are gone.”

Some time later, having already undressed down to my shirt and breeches, I am admitted to Miss Wells's bedroom, where the bath is waiting for me.

“Take everything off,” says Miss Wells.

I strip naked and climb into the bath. There are red marks on my neck and bruises elsewhere; I let the warm, rosemary-scented water soothe me.

Miss Wells kneels behind me. 

“Lean right back.” I feel her untie my hair and, humming softly, comb the loose dirt from it, then gently massage soap through it, and rinse it, until I am cleansed of all the filth of the tavern floor.

“There,” she says.

She takes a sponge and, holding each of my hands in turn, she slowly washes my arms. Her gaze is fixed on my body, and her strokes are sensual, and my body reacts predictably. I lie in a blissful state of carnal expectation, feeling her work her way down my chest, towards my belly and my...

She stops, suddenly. “I'm so sorry,” she says. “He should not have hurt you.”

She might as well have poured cold water on me, but I do not care; all that matters now is that she answer my question: “Miss Wells,” I say, “what are your intentions towards Mr—towards _him_?”

“ _Intentions_?” She sits back on her heels. “You make me sound like a village swain, Mr Haxby.”

“Do you _love_ him?”

“Marney's a good man,” she says; “a kind, honourable man, but...”

“But”—I cannot stop myself—“but you are not in love with him?”

“But _he_ thinks he's in love with _me_ , Mr Haxby. He wants more than I can give,” she says. “He _deserves_ more than I can give.”

“Whereas I do not.”

“Oh, Mr Haxby!” She leans over the side of the bath and kisses my cheek. “I have already told you that you and I are two of a kind. I _knew_ , that night,” she says, fingering the wet hair from my forehead, “the moment you were inside me, that you would be my fate, for better or for worse.”

I pull her into my arms and hold her, burying my face in the crook of her neck. 

When she is affectionate with me, a part of me is always convinced that she is playing me. But, tonight, whilst she is still a little drunk, I honestly believe that she is showing me her true feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Coup de foudre_ , love at first sight, is first recorded about twenty years later than the date of this story, but I liked Haxby using it.
> 
>  _Cunt-beaten_ is, apparently, the native English alternative to 'impotent', which is borrowed from the French.


	8. In which my young master and I visit a bawdy house.

In the past six weeks, since I became Miss Wells's lover, I have learned two things.

First, there is nothing more beautiful, to the sight or to the touch, than a woman's naked body.

Secondly, there is no earthly joy greater than to join with the woman who—I admit it—owns your heart.

If Eve had never tempted Adam, if Adam had never fallen, if mankind were still in a state of innocence, as God intended, would there be no congress? Or would congress be without sin? And if congress _were_ without sin, would it still be so—

“ _Please_ ,” Miss Wells moans.

I rise up on my hands and exert myself, as I know she likes.

Her cries fire my loins; I slip my hands beneath her and gather her up, and kiss her hungrily, still moving inside her. Miss Wells's legs are wrapped around me; I can no longer tell where my body ends and where hers begins. We have been joined so long, I feel we might never part.

“Oh, Mr Haxby!” she sobs, and arches beneath me, and her crisis rips my seed out of the very depths of me. 

…

This morning, when I kneel beside the bed, to confess my sins and ask God for His guidance, Miss Wells stretches out a hand and places it upon my shoulder.

…

Later the same day, Miss Wells comes to me in the Library.

“Do you think I could pass for a youth, Mr Haxby? If I were to wear your clothes?”

I wipe my pen and lay it on the ink stand, and regard her, thoughtfully. Since our trip to Marston Wood, I am no longer surprised by the bizarre things Miss Wells sometimes says, but that does not mean I have stopped questioning her behaviour. 

“It's important,” she insists, “that I pass for a youth, not a harlot.”

“My clothes are meant for an older man, Miss Wells,” I say. “In Mr Chadwick's clothes, you could pass for a youth, perhaps...”

“Mr Chadwick's clothes,” she says, “yes. But how can I persuade Mr Chadwick to lend me a suit, Mr Haxby?” She comes to me, and sits upon my lap, draping an arm across my shoulders.

“Mr Chadwick would lend you his head if you would only smile at him, Miss Wells,” I say.

Smiling at _me_ , Miss Wells leans forward, and kisses me. She is perfectly well aware of her power, over Mr Chadwick _and_ over me. “But he will ask questions,” she says.

“I am sure you can lie to him,” I say.

She gives me a longer and more thorough kiss. “If I were to write a note,” she says, “would you deliver it for me?” 

The Prodigy is staying in the Dower House, and I am not comfortable riding a horse, even in the comparative safety of Mereworth Park, but...

“You do not need to do this,” I say, meaning her smiles, her kisses, and her toying with my hair.

“I know,” says Miss Wells, “but seducing you is so much fun, Mr Haxby,” and she kisses me until I all but lose control.

“Will you tell me—why you need—to pose—as a youth?” I ask, smothering her bosom in kisses.

“Later,” she says.

…

“She wishes to play a prank upon her sister?” says Mr Chadwick, looking up from Miss Wells's letter.

“If that is what she says,” I reply.

“I didn't know that Miss Wells had a sister,” he says, and I assume, from the faraway look in his eyes, that he is imagining himself the paramour of _two_ Venuses, and I wonder how far his tastes run towards the application of the birch...

“I don't have many clothes,” says the Prodigy. “Not in a condition suitable for Miss Wells to wear.”

From his limited wardrobe, I select the best: a matching coat and breeches of fine blue-grey wool, and a waistcoat of red silk brocade. 

I have already decided that Miss Wells will wear my own shirt and underdrawers.

…

I indulge myself by helping Miss Wells tie one of my neckcloths tightly round her chest to flatten her bosom, helping her put on my shirt, stockings, and underdrawers, and watching her dress in Mr Chadwick's suit. 

She combs out her hair, and I tie it in a simple queue; her hair is longer than mine, but that could easily pass for a new fashion.

“Will I do?” she asks, turning full circle.

The creature standing before me is neither male nor female, but extraordinarily beautiful, and profoundly disturbing. “No woman could resist you,” I say, “and no man, neither.”

She comes to me, and gives me a long and deliberately lascivious kiss. Then she draws back, and looks deep into my eyes, for she knows exactly the sinful effect she is having on me.

“Miss Wells...” I say, sounding very much less than manly.

She touches her forehead to mine...

Then she gives me one of her brisk kisses, the signal that play is over.

“Do you remember your part?” she asks as we cross the chequered floor of the entrance hall. A footman opens the doors for us.

“I do,” I reply. “And I am beginning to wish I were a Roman, for I feel my sins today will require penance.”

She laughs, bounding down the steps in her breeches and climbing nimbly into the carriage.

…

The bawdy house is located in that labyrinth of sin and filth and rookeries Miss Wells grew up in, close to the Covent Garden market. She has not told me why she has chosen to visit this particular place.

“I cannot believe,” I say, as we approach its shabby door, “that His Grace has sent you here—does His Grace even know that you are doing this?”

“Knock,” says Miss Wells.

“ _Does_ His Grace know?”

“ _Knock!_ ”

“You have gone behind His Grace's back and made _me_ your accomplice?!”

Miss Wells strides past me and hammers on the door.

It is opened by a bully as broad as he is tall.

“We're here for the cunny,” says Miss Wells, her voice sounding deep and remarkably masculine. “And we're not for waiting.”

I follow her through the door. My part in this escapade should not be arduous for, as Miss Wells remarked when she persuaded me to accompany her, this is precisely the sort of adventure Lord Howard might have thought amusing, and my obvious disgust is quite appropriate.

We are shown into a parlour, where the bawd, a Mrs Robinson, welcomes us, displaying her harlots for our inspection, like cattle at a market. I cannot look at the women without imagining Miss Wells in exactly the same situation—in more elegant surroundings, perhaps, but still treated as livestock. I do not know when I stopped seeing harlots as heinous sinners, and began seeing them as, well, _hapless_ sinners.

Miss Wells looks at each woman in turn and, adding depth to her voice again, says, “The one in the corner.” 

There is a moment's silence. Then Mrs Robinson says, “'Tis true that Rosalie is an excellent harlot, sir, but there are fresher girls, better suited to a _young_ gentleman.”

“When you're still learning to ride,” says Miss Wells, with a brutish arrogance that sends a chill down my spine, “choose an old, steady horse; that's what I've heard.” She turns to the bawd, and her beautiful, androgyne's face is hard.

“Rosalie it is, then,” Mrs Robinson concedes.

“Double the coin for me and my man together,” says Miss Wells.

…

Rosalie Farrow—for the harlot is, it seems, she—leads us upstairs, past several floors of occupied rooms. I find it strange that something that can be so transporting when performed with a woman you care for in what is tantamount to a marriage bed, can be so nauseating when glimpsed, performed by others, through doors that should be closed.

The harlot shows us into a room on the top floor, furnished with a bed, a chair, a side table, and very little else, but its floor is swept, at least, and the bed linen seems reasonably clean.

I sit down on the chair and put my face in my hands. “Good God,” I sigh.

“I'm sorry,” says Miss Wells, leaning over me and rubbing my back. I feel her press her lips to the crown of my head. “Sorry,” she whispers, “sorry.”

I catch her hand, bring it to my mouth, and kiss it feverishly.

There is a strangled gasp, and Miss Wells and I both look up to see Rosalie Farrow staring at us with undisguised horror. Miss Wells pats my back and goes to sit on the bed.

“We are here,” she says, reverting to her own voice, “to help you, Rosalie, if you are willing to be helped.”

The woman looks at her, suspiciously.

“Sit down,” says Miss Wells, indicating the far side of the bed, “and hear what I have to say.”

Rosalie Farrow sags a little, but she does not sit.

“If you don't know what to make of _me_ ,” says Miss Wells, “I think you can at least see that Mr Haxby, here, is a good, God-fearing man. You can trust him.”

Rosalie Farrow looks from Miss Wells to me, and back again. “You're a woman,” she says. “I knew there was something not right about you straight away... And him... I thought he was a molly, but he's your _man_...” She pronounces 'man' in the way that means _lover_.

“Rosalie,” says Miss Wells, “we're not here for the tupping. When did you last see your daughter?”

“Did Maria send you?”

“No,” says Miss Wells, softly. “Have you seen her in the past few months?”

Rosalie says nothing.

“Please sit down,” says Miss Wells, gently, and now there is something in her tone that speaks of bad news.

“What's happened?” says Rosalie.

I see Miss Wells make a decision: “Maria was murdered,” she says. “I am so sorry.”

Rosalie Farrow's knees give way beneath her. I leap from the chair, catch her, and guide her to the bed. Miss Wells—the extraordinary woman!—produces a hip flask from her pocket and, unscrewing the cap, holds it to Rosalie's lips, and lets her sip from it.

“Who killed her?” says Rosalie Farrow.

“That is what we want to find out,” says Miss Wells. 

She nods to me and I return to the chair, letting her sit beside the older woman and hold her hand. “Someone is taking innocent girls off the street, Rosalie,” she says. “Not harlots, but country girls, new to the Town, who've no idea what's lurking in wait for them—and they're using them—five or ten of the bastards, using them, one after the other—then killing them. And me and Mr Haxby, we're going to stop them. Your Maria was one of those girls, Rosalie. She was kidnapped, used, and killed. And anything you can tell us— _anything_ —about the last time you saw her, might help us stop them.”

The woman looks at me. “I know why we're angry, me and this woman of yours,” she says; “why we want to get them, but why do you?”

Because I love her, I think. 

“Because your Maria might have been _her_ ,” I say.

…

With the help of whatever Miss Wells has put in the hip flask, Rosalie Farrow tells us her story.

She was sold to a bawd at the age of thirteen. At eighteen, she met her husband, Matthew Elton, a cull who fell in love with her—“I was his first and only,”—and asked her to marry him. Elton took her back to Marston Wood and, within a year, they had had a child, Maria. But Rosalie could not settle in the village, for every time her husband looked at her she imagined he was seeing the harlot she had once been, with all her culls, waiting their turn, beside her. So, after a few years, she had left her husband and child, and returned to the Town and her old life.

It is a terrible tale, but—I keep telling myself—Miss Wells and I are made of entirely different stuff...

“About three months ago,” says Rosalie, “Maria knocked at the door. She'd found me through Harris's List.”

I glance at Miss Wells; she nods to confirm that she has found Rosalie by the same method.

“Of course, Groves”—she is referring to the bully—“turned her away, but she just kept coming back, waiting outside until, one day, she caught me. She told me that Matthew was dead”—she sniffs—“and she begged me to come home with her. She said that she would take care of me.” She scrubs the tears from her face. “If I'd gone with her, Miss Charlotte, Maria'd still be alive...”

It is impossible to argue with that, but Miss Wells pats her hand and comforts her as best she can.

When Rosalie has recovered a little, Miss Wells asks: “Did Maria say where she was living?”

“She said she was sharing a room near the Market, with a friend.”

Miss Wells and I exchange glances.

“Did she tell you the name of her friend, Miss Farrow?” I ask.

Rosalie Farrow smiles sadly at Miss Wells. “Don't he have lovely manners?”

Miss Wells nods.

“She did not, sir,” says Rosalie.

“Did she say how she was paying her rent?” I ask.

“Her savings, sir. But”—she frowns—“she did say they was nearly at an end, and she was planning to get a job. She said she was going to stay in the Town until she could persuade me to go home—I should have known”—she breaks down again, sobbing—“when she never came back. I told her not to, but she was a determined one, like her father. I should have known something had happened to her...”

Miss Wells holds the weeping woman in her arms. I notice that she is looking at something on the other side of the room and, following her gaze, I see a small wooden cross standing on the side table. 

“Would you like Mr Haxby to say a prayer with you, Rosalie?” Miss Wells asks.

…

We leave Rosalie Farrow with Miss Wells's calling card, on which I have written the address of Mrs Scanwell's House of Penitence, five guineas, and strict instructions to keep both hidden.

Then Miss Wells puts on her hat and swaggers through the Town, every inch the lusty young cull with his man in tow. As we walk, women _and_ men cast admiring glances at the beautiful androgyne and, once again, I am in the uncomfortable position of being scrutinised as her incongruous companion.

“What now?” I ask.

“We're going to Ma's,” says Miss Wells.

…

Margaret Wells takes one look at her daughter and gives me a look of undisguised contempt. “You dressed like that for _this one_?” she asks Miss Wells.

Miss Wells smiles at me.

“No,” we say, together.

“Who you hiding from, then?”

“I'm not hiding, Ma,” says Miss Wells. “I'm...”

“She was hoping to play a prank on her sister, Mrs Wells,” I say.

Miss Wells laughs. “That's right,” she says.

“Lucy's busy.”

“So I hear,” says Miss Wells—and, indeed, regular cries of pain are coming from somewhere up above us. “I just want to know where you would go in the Market, if you wanted to hire a young girl, recently up from the country, as a scullery maid or some such, Ma.”

…

I visit the house of office, which proves surprisingly clean.

As I am returning to the parlour, I overhear Margaret Wells saying: “What's with you and Mr Hatchet-face?” and—God forgive me—I lurk, just outside the door, and listen.

“Don't call him that,” says Miss Wells. She sounds annoyed, though the insult is no worse than some of the things _she_ has hurled at me; perhaps she considers it her privilege to be my sole tormentor.

“You're on him like the French pox,” says Margaret Wells.

“So? Maybe he suits me, Ma,” says Miss Wells. “Maybe I like his company. Maybe he happens to be lovely in bed. Maybe—”

I am so taken aback, I almost miss Margaret Wells's angry reply.

“Why're you risking losing the Duke? The Duke can drop jewels on your pillow. But no, _you_ have to have the servant! The servant! He's not even young and strapping! The only safety a woman has in this world is money; money's a woman's only power. Does _this one_ have money—?”

“You don't know what you're talking about, Ma,” says Miss Wells.

“Have you forgotten that _this one_ lied to get you burned for murder?”

“Because he thought I'd killed his master! And Mr Haxby wasn't the only one who threw me to the wolves, Ma, if you remember,” says Miss Wells, angrily.

Margaret Wells sweeps out of the room and near collides with me, giving me a look of pure hate.

“The difference,” shouts Miss Wells from inside the parlour, “is that _he_ didn't know I was innocent!”

I lean back against the wall, waiting for the right moment to rejoin Miss Wells. 

There are too many things in our shared past, mine and hers—things we have done to one another—that we have never talked of.

…

“Why so quiet, Mr Haxby?” Miss Wells asks, later, when we are in the carriage, heading home. “What's troubling you?”

Perhaps I should stay silent—a hard lesson I learned serving Lord Howard—but she and I are not meant to be silent with one another. 

“Your mother,” I say.

“She doesn't like you. I'm sorry—”

“Who killed Lord Howard, Miss Wells?” I ask.

She stares at me with such intensity, it is as though the rest of the world has vanished, and only she and I remain. “ _I_ didn't, Mr Haxby,” she says.

I know she is telling the truth, but I also recognise a feint when I hear it. 

I can see that what she wants is to come to me; she wants me to take her in my arms, and tell her that all is well, and I want that, too, but we both know that this moment is too important. Whatever it is we have—and, in me, it seems to be growing deeper and stronger every day—this is a stumbling block that must be attended to. We cannot hide forever in touches and kisses, and in the bliss of carnal union, knowing that this lies between us.

“When they brought him back,” I say, “I was sure it was you; you, after all, he had violated, and you had come to the house with Mr—with _him_ —for your jewels, so it seemed obvious to me that you had killed him.”

“I know it did,” she says. She is calm, but tears are welling in her eyes.

“Later, I thought it was your father, but I have watched him since, and I now know he is not the sort to save himself at the cost of his daughter's life. Then, today, I heard what you said to your mother: ' _He_ did not know I was innocent,' you said. You implied that your mother—”

“ _Please_ , Mr Haxby!”

“—that your mother knew you were innocent, but she would not, or could not, speak for you. And there is only one person whose life your mother would put before yours: was it your sister, Miss Wells? Did Lord Howard try to violate her, as he violated you? Did she defend herself with a knife?”

“No, Mr Haxby, no!” she cries. 

She is sobbing in earnest now, and I cannot bear it. I cross the carriage, take her in my arms and hold her tight. I am not a strong or courageous man—God knows, I am a clerk not a hero—but I will shield her with all my might. And I will never let her go.

“Do you forgive _me_?” I ask. “For what I did?”

She looks up at me, and her eyes search my face.

“I was angry,” I say. “Angry, and...”

“Arrogant,” says Miss Wells. She has stopped weeping, but her face is flushed and her cheeks are wet; she is so beautiful, it threatens to break my heart. “Arrogant, jealous, bitter, and stupid,” she sniffs. “You could have had me that night. You could have taken me to your bed and fucked me all night. And, in the morning, we would have worked out a way to have something together. But, no, you had to be smug. You could not call a truce; you had to win the game.” 

All the while she is saying these hurtful things to me, her hand is on my cheek, and she is looking at me with the most tender expression. “I have no idea,” she says, “why I care for you so much.”

“Do you forgive me?” I ask again.

“I must do, or I wouldn't be here with you now,” she says.

“I swear to God,” I tell her, “and to you, Miss Wells, that I will never speak of your sister's guilt again. Not to anyone.”

And if there is a cost to my soul, I think, then I shall bear it.


	9. In which Mrs Haxby and I encounter Lady Caroline.

Tonight, for the first time since I became her lover, Miss Wells and I have not had carnal relations.

When we undressed ourselves, and climbed chastely into bed, it seemed to me a glimpse of the respectable, married life a part of me longs to lead with her but, now, lying awake beside her, in the dead of night, I fear that the truths we have shared might have banished forever her desire for physical intimacy with me. 

I find myself...

“How long have you been awake?” Miss Wells sighs.

“No more than an hour,” I lie.

“You should have woken me,” she says and then, without a word of warning, she disappears beneath the bedclothes and proceeds to do the most _disgraceful_ thing imaginable.

“The harlots you had before me,” she says, her voice muffled against my—my flesh; “did they ever kiss you—”

“Oh.”

“—like this? Mm? Did they _lick_ you—”

“Ah.”

“—like this? Did they ever _suck_ you...?”

“ _Nnnnnnnnnn—DEAREST GOD!_ ”

I cannot describe the next few minutes without boasting of my own depravity; suffice to say that, for all of my determination to hold fast, Miss Wells unmans me.

Then she emerges from the tangled bedsheets and crawls over me. 

“Did I satisfy you, Mr Haxby?” she asks, smiling lewdly.

I am incapable of anything more than a groan of assent; my body is melted, like wax. Miss Wells leans down and kisses me. My seed tastes like salt and metal on her lips.

“I am sorry,” I say, my voice weak. “It is disgusting.”

“Yours isn't so bad,” she says, and kisses me again, thoroughly. Then she puts her mouth to my ear, and whispers, “I _like_ your prick, Mr Haxby; I like it when it's standing rock hard.”

She is shameless. 

And, sometimes, the beast in me wants to carry her up the West Tower, out onto the roof and, lifting her up in my arms, shout out to the whole world, “Miss Charlotte Wells is _mine_!” 

But that will have to wait until I have rested.

“Get some sleep, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, stroking my hair. “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

And I feel her lips...

…

“No,” I say.

“Mr Haxby...!”

“ _No_.”

“Why?”

“It is not even _clean_.”

“Of course it's not clean. It's been worn to muck out the stables.”

“I would be the thinnest, weakest, most pallid stable hand ever to seek employment in the Town.”

“Well... You could say you've been ill.”

“ _And_ I would have to cut my hair,” I say, playing my ace-up-the-sleeve.

Miss Wells looks at my hair. “No,” she says, “we cannot have that.” She drops the filthy, foul-smelling shirt on top of the revolting breeches she has begged, borrowed or stolen from one of His Grace's stable boys. 

“But _I_ will never pass for an innocent maid...” she says.

“Suppose we were to pose as employers, not workers?” I say; my penchant for lying and deceit is becoming alarming.

“Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, “you are a virtuoso!”

…

“Do we have a plan, Miss Wells?” I ask, some time later, as the carriage pulls away from the House and begins its long, slow descent through Mereworth Park to the Great Gate. 

Miss Wells has obtained a list of three particularly disreputable servant registry offices from her mother's friend, Mrs Scanwell, but she has not told me how she intends to use it.

She turns away from the carriage window. “I like to see how straight the road is,” she says; “how it cuts through the park, like it knows its own purpose.”

“So we do not have a plan?” I say.

“We have a stratagem, Mr Haxby,” she says, sitting back, and arranging her skirts.

“Dear Lord,” I say. _I_ can think of no way to trace a path from poor Maria Elton to The Spartans, and now it seems that Miss Wells cannot, either. “And what is our stratagem, Miss Wells?”

“In a nutshell, Mr Haxby, we will visit each registry office in turn, and I shall keep the clerk occupied whilst you take a look at his ledger.”

I sink into my seat and, letting my head fall back, I close my eyes.

“What's wrong?” says Miss Wells.

“Where do I begin?” I ask, rhetorically.

“You have no idea,” says Miss Wells, “how much that sour face makes me want to teach you a lesson.”

“And would that lesson involve you putting your hand inside my breeches, Miss Wells?” I ask.

“Oh _wouldn't_ you like that, Mr Haxby!” she says.

There is a pause, whilst we each assess our position, and both silently back down.

“What would I be looking for?” I ask.

“Anything significant,” she says.

“Such as?”

“ _You're_ the book keeper, Mr Haxby!” She sighs: “We want the name of the person who hired Maria Elton.”

“Is it likely such a record exists?” I ask. “If _I_ were procuring a victim, I would be sure to bribe the clerk to leave my name blank—or, at least, I would give him a false name.”

Miss Wells smiles at me. “Now you're thinking like a kidnapper, Mr Haxby.”

“Discovering anything will take more time than you can buy me.” I look up at her. “And just how do you intend to distract the clerk?”

“You mean, shall I be giving him favours that properly belong to you?”

The woman is _maddening_.

“I don't intend to fuck him against a wall, Mr Haxby, if that's what worries you. But I can flirt and flatter with the best of them.”

“I do not like this stratagem.”

“Your face proclaims as much,” says Miss Wells. She crosses the carriage and sits beside me. “Maria Elton is the only victim we can put a name to, the only one whose final movements we _might_ be able to follow—”

“Assuming it was The Spartans who killed her.”

“Yes, assuming that; though the way she was used, and the way she was strangled immediately after, is—”

“Tantamount to proof,” I agree.

She lays her head upon my shoulder and I put my arm around her. “I know I am asking you to go against your nature, Mr Haxby, but it is the only way I can think of,” she says.

…

The first of Miss Wells's three servant registry offices is a temporary affair, set in an empty warehouse. Miss Wells has no trouble distracting both clerks, asking them for advice in choosing a good maid of all work, and using—as she promised me—a great deal of flattery to inspire in them a rivalry to secure her attention.

There are two ledgers, one—a casual glance tells me—for male servants, and the other for female. I position myself beside the female register, and Miss Wells—the truly extraordinary woman!—slowly moves away, taking the clerks with her and turning them round, until both have their back to me. 

My hands shaking, I quickly turn back the pages three months, and scan the entries. 

The clerks charge a servant six pence to enter her details in the register, and charge each would-be employer three pence for an enquiry. There is no way to match a successful enquiry to the servant hired, but it does not matter.

I return the ledger to its original position and wait until I have caught Miss Wells's eye, then I leave.

Miss Wells follows me a few moments later.

“Well?” she asks.

“No entry for Maria Elton,” I say.

“Let's try the next one,” says Miss Wells.

…

The second office looks more respectable, and its clerks are harder to distract—though nothing is impossible for Miss Charlotte Wells—but the business operates in exactly the same way as the first, and Maria Elton's name is not in the female ledger.

“Strange,” says Miss Wells, as we are walking to the third office. “Would you not expect a girl in urgent need of a job to register at every office?”

“Six pence is a lot of money,” I say. “And Maria sounds like a sensible girl who would have realised that these people are little more than thieves.”

Miss Wells suddenly stops walking.

“Charlotte?”

She looks up at me, startled, then she smiles. “You should call me that more often, Mr Haxby,” she says. “It sounds nice the way you say it.”

“What is wrong?”

“You're right,” she says. “Maria was a sensible girl, yet she was shammed. We are looking for a very respectable woman, Mr Haxby.”

…

The third office is situated in the piazza itself, in one of the premises under the portico, and has a painted sign, which reads 'Servant Registry Office' in gold on green. 

The place is a model of respectability.

Miss Wells and I have perfected our method: we enter, she approaches the clerk, asking him for advice, staying well back so that he is forced to rise from his desk and approach her; I, lagging behind her, tarry by his desk until his back is turned, then rapidly examine his ledgers.

This time, I find her,

 _4th July 1755_ — Maria Elton — 15 years — experience: none — tall, strong  & well-made

and, in the final column of her entry,

 _6th July 1755_ — 1 shilling, A E

I check the other entries: There is an S E, an M B, and a G F; I conclude that A E are the initials of the person who hired Maria. 

I check the front and back of the ledger for a key, but find nothing.

I glance at Miss Wells; she has the clerk eating out of her hand.

I look around for a separate book, something small and well-worn, and still find nothing; perhaps the clerk keeps it in his pocket...

…

I leave the servant registry office unnoticed, save by Miss Wells, who seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to my movements, and I walk far enough into the piazza to be inconspicuous, but not so far that Miss Wells will have difficulty finding me. 

The weather, though still fine, has turned windy, and many of the costermongers have packed up for the day.

“Buy a posy, sir,” says a child with a basket of wilted violets, and I am about to shoo her away, when I hear a familiar voice—“Mr Haxby!”—and turn towards its owner. 

“Lady Caroline!” I bow respectfully.

“I trust you are well?” She is still dressed in mourning, more than a year after Lord Howard's death. I notice a carriage, bearing her own family crest, waiting not far away, and, standing beside it, a sturdy footman, watching me like a hawk.

“I am, my Lady,” I reply.

“Have you... Have you found a new position?” She threw me out of her house and onto the streets, with nothing more than my clothes, my meagre savings, and an indifferent reference, but Lady Caroline is at heart an honourable woman, and I know her question is genuine.

“I am employed by the Duke of Malmesbury, my Lady. As his Librarian and Archivist.”

“That must be a change for you.”

“It is pleasant work, my Lady, and...”

Lady Caroline frowns, and I realise she is no longer listening to me, but looking over my shoulder. “Is that...? she asks.

I turn to see Miss Wells taking her leave of the registration office clerk.

“Good day, Mrs Haxby,” he says, with a respectful bow and, by some bizarre freak of the wind, his voice carries, and reaches our ears.

“You have _married_ her?!” says Lady Caroline.

“I...”

She laughs; it is a bitter and unladylike sound. “Men never disappoint,” she says.

“If you knew her as I have come to know her, my Lady,” I say, as Miss Wells is walking towards us, “I believe you would admire her.”

“That is lust speaking, Mr Haxby,” says Lady Caroline. And, as if to confirm it, a sudden gust of wind catches Miss Wells and whips her simple brown dress around her, showing the delights of her limbs. “I _do_ know Miss Wells,” Lady Caroline adds, “and she and I understand each other perfectly. It is _you_ I no longer understand."

“It is not mere lust, my Lady, it...”

Miss Wells has reached us. She greets Lady Caroline with a nod of the head; she does not curtsey. The two women regard each other, cautiously.

Lady Caroline is the first to break the silence. “I believe I must wish you joy,” she says.

Miss Wells glances at me. I have no way of telling her what has already passed between Lady Caroline and me, but Miss Wells is remarkably quick.

“Thank you,” she says. “Mr Haxby and I are very happy.” She slips an arm through mine. “Have you told Lady Caroline what we do here, Mr Haxby?”

“I.. No, my dear,” I say.

“We are looking for a young woman who has gone missing,” she tells Lady Caroline.

“A woman of your former calling?”

“No, an honest country girl who came to the Town to help her mother, and was shamefully kidnapped by a group of men who treat the ruining—the _destroying_ —of women as sport,” says Miss Wells, with so much feeling, Lady Caroline is visibly taken aback. “Mr Haxby and I beg you, Lady Caroline, that if you should hear mention, from any of the men of your acquaintance, of a coterie who call themselves The Spartans, you will write to us at Mereworth House, and tell us.”

Lady Caroline studies Miss Wells for a long moment, then she looks at me. “I shall,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a lot of research to find out about the place where Lydia Quigley found the first girl. It seems to be a servant registry office, and the only information I could find about it is here: 
> 
> https://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2009/05/27/hiring-servants-in-the-regency-era-and-late/
> 
> Mr Haxby says that Charlotte has a sixth sense where he is concerned. From the _Online Etymology Dictionary_ : 
> 
> Sixth sense [meaning] "supernatural perception of objects" is attested from 1712; earlier it meant "titillation, the sense that apprehends sexual pleasure" (1690s, from Scaliger). 
> 
> ;-)


	10. In which I suffer the torments both of cuckoldry and of lust.

“A E...” says Miss Wells, thoughtfully. 

We have come to Greene's chocolate house to discuss my findings.

“It's not Lydia Quigley,” she says. 

“It does not seem so,” I agree. 

“Did you see any more entries for A E?”

“No, but I did not have time to examine the entire register. I suspect,” I add, “that the clerk records his clients' full names in a separate book, perhaps small enough to keep on his person. It is his livelihood, after all.”

Miss Wells's eyes meet mine. We both know how easily she could get close enough to pick the clerk's pocket, and I have a sudden vision, like a satirical print, of myself, thin and pinched in my sober black, lurking in the shadows of some filthy alley, whilst Miss Wells, painted and patched, lifts the book and passes it to me and, all the while, her foolish victim, presenting his bare buttocks to the world, is _going_ at her.

I feel nauseous.

“Mr Haxby?” Miss Wells's voice is full of concern.

“Swear to me you will _not_ ,” I say and, as the words leave my lips, I regret them—not for their sentiment, but for the possessiveness I am sure Miss Wells will hear in them, and resent. I wait, expecting a storm of anger. 

Instead, Miss Wells reaches across the table and gently places her hand on mine. “I swear—”

“Charlotte Wells!”

Miss Wells pulls her hand away. “Sir Christopher!”

Sir Christopher Rutledge does not wait to be invited; he draws out a chair and sits down beside Miss Wells, eyeing her with some curiosity, for she is still dressed like a parson's wife.

“We don't see you much in the Town these days,” he says.

“The Duke of Malmesbury is my keeper now,” says Miss Wells. “I live at Mereworth.” 

I notice that her manner has changed; imperceptibly she has become her old self, bright and bawdy, and her plain, brown garb seems to have transformed itself into fancy dress, and become a disguise fit for an adventure, or an assignation.

Sir Christopher glances at me. “Is that... Haxby?”

I bow my head respectfully.

“Mr Haxby is employed by His Grace these days,” says Miss Wells. “One of his duties is to accompany me into the Town and protect me from unwanted suitors.”

“And who protects you from _him_?” Sir Christopher asks. He was ever the most perceptive of Lord Howard's friends, and would often make it clear to me that he understood the true nature of my feelings towards Miss Wells—

“He's just a little drudge,” she says.

Sir Christopher's eyes linger on me, looking for a reaction, but I disappoint him. Then, “Perhaps you'll do me the honour of taking a turn around St James's, Miss Wells?” he says.

“I should be delighted,” she replies.

“I shall wait for you with the carriage, Miss Wells,” I say, to her back, as Sir Christopher leads her out of Greene's.

…

The next two hours are the longest and most miserable of my life. 

When, at last, I see Miss Wells, the object of all eyes, walking towards me on Sir Christopher's arm, I almost have an apoplexy.

I stand obediently beside the carriage as _he_ hands her in, closes the door for her, and flirts with her through the window, bidding her good bye with a familiarity that makes my stomach turn. To the coachman's surprise, I climb up beside him, and stay there until we have left the Town behind us, only then asking him to stop so that I can join Miss Wells inside.

“You must be cold,” she says.

It is the least of my concerns.

“Did he treat you with respect?” I ask.

Miss Wells smiles. “Come here, Mr Haxby,” she says.

We say nothing more for a long while, for our embrace soon turns to kissing, and our kissing to a tender joining of our bodies.

…

“He knows,” says Miss Wells, afterwards, “of a group of men who meet in a cave, beneath a grand house. They perform pagan rituals.”

“Of a lewd nature?”

“He says there's one entails a goat.”

“As a sacrifice?”

“To Venus.” She raises her eyebrows.

“He should not have told you such things.”

“I am a harlot, Mr Haxby, not a Lady Caroline,” she says. “Though I doubt there's anything would shock _that_ woman.”

“And I dare say Sir Christopher invited you to participate in one of these rituals?” I say, bitterly.

She takes my hand and kisses it. “No, he cannot, Mr Haxby. A man must be invited to join the club, and Crispy does not have the connections.” She uses his nickname, I think, not to annoy me, but to show me she despises him. “All he knows is rumour.”

“Can these be The Spartans?” I ask.

“I don't know.”

…

We share a pleasant supper with His Grace, who is in a voluble mood, asking me my opinion of the Honourable East India Company and its doings, and discussing with Miss Wells the demonstration she and I are to perform, of igniting spirits, for his friends on All Hallows' Eve.

I retire to my room and wash, waiting until the servants have left Miss Wells, before I slip out, intending to join her, but I find His Grace already tapping at her door. 

Miss Wells opens it, and I do not hear what His Grace says to her, but I see her smile and admit him.

The shock almost fells me. 

I have been living in a world where Miss Wells and I go into the Town as man and wife, where parsons and tradesmen, and even Lady Caroline, _treat_ us as man and wife, where I feel cuckolded when Sir Christopher Rutledge takes her for nothing more than 'a turn' around St James's. 

I have begun to believe that her bed is _our_ marriage bed.

I have grown too comfortable in my sin.

…

I spend a wretched night, tossing and turning; I do not sleep. 

In the morning, I seek out Miss Wells at breakfast. She is surprised to see me, for, in the House, we live separately during the day, unless she seeks me out in the Library. It is her nights that are mine.

“Where were you last night?” she asks, the moment we are alone. She has cut a slice from her bread, and she spreads it with butter. 

“I saw you had a visitor,” I say.

“His Grace—”

“I cannot do it any more, Miss Wells,” I tell her.

“Do what, Mr Haxby?” she asks. Her hand is frozen half-way to her lips, and she is frowning.

“Betray His Grace the way we are doing,” I say.

She returns the bread to her plate. “I have told you before,” she says, quietly, “that Malmesbury would _not_ blame you.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I know it to be true.”

“How? How can you possibly know how a man feels—how _I_ would feel were you to betray me in another man's bed?”

“Do you honestly think,” says Miss Wells, suddenly angry, “that I would ever betray _you_? I did not betray _Howard_ —save with you, and then not until after I had decided to leave him for betraying _me_ —and he was vile! I do _not_ betray Malmesbury—”

“Miss Wells!” I am astounded by her lies.

“I do not! And I would never, ever betray _you_! _You_...!” She throws up her hands in frustration. “And,” she says, gaining momentum, like a horse shifting from canter to gallop, “how _dare_ you suggest that betrayal is more painful for a man than for a woman—for a _wife_ , who has given a man her youth, and is worn out by cooking and cleaning for him, earning money for him, and bearing children for him? Do you think a woman's heart will not break?”

“I did not say that! I only meant that—that—that HIS GRACE IS YOUR _KEEPER_!!”

“Mr Haxby! Lower your voice!” she hisses.

“I see the way he looks at you, Miss Wells; I see what he wants from you, though he is too good a man to demand it of you, as he has every right. And I cannot bear it! You... you and I... we can at least respect him by... by refraining from our sinning!”

She has risen from the breakfast table and she is _so_ close, and I want _so_ much to take her in my arms and hold her, kiss her, and let her sweetness soothe away my distress, but that is the very thing I cannot allow myself to do.

“I cannot continue,” I say again.

“And do I get no say?”

Her eyes are glistening with angry tears and, struggling to keep my own tears in check, I am forced to turn my back on her. 

“It is a sin, Miss Wells,” I say, as calmly as I can. “It is a betrayal, and a cruelty to a man who has taken both of us out of the gutter and saved us. And when you have had time to think about it, you will thank me for putting an end to it.”

…

The first night without her is difficult but, after that...

My life becomes impossible. 

If I thought that the nightmares I used to have, before I came to Mereworth—before I became Miss Wells's lover—were degrading, I was mistaken. Now I know the true tenderness of her regard—when she is not furious with me—and the true sweetness of her body... But it is the _harlot_ who comes to me in my dreams, it is the _harlot_ who assails me, grasping me, groping me, climbing onto me and riding me as though I were an unbroken horse. 

And I awake, wet with my own seed but not satisfied, and the shame, the revulsion I feel, is _unbearable_.

I cannot risk being with Miss Wells during the day; I do not trust myself, even when others are present. I have a physical ache that will not go away. I am so ill-tempered, so restless, I am forced to excuse myself from meals with the other servants, and from supper with His Grace and Miss Wells, and immure myself in the Library, claiming that I am behind in my work. 

His Grace is so concerned for me, he is condescending enough to come into the Library himself, and ask what ails me. I give him my usual excuse, but I can see that he is not convinced by it and, the following day, his doctor visits me, examines my eyes and tongue, and prescribes a tonic.

It tastes like poison, and it only seems to make my nightmares worse.

My life is in ruins, but I will not commit the vile sin of onanism, even though reason tells me it might at least allow me the solace of undisturbed sleep...

And I _will_ not return to her bed.

…

“Mr Haxby...”

I look up from my work. Miss Wells is standing in the doorway, dressed in her harlot's garb: a gown of vivid pink silk, cut low to display the lovely curves of her bosom, a cloak of kingfisher blue, and a large straw hat, which she is wearing at a jaunty angle. 

I quickly look down, and continue writing.

“I need you to come into the Town with me,” she says, firmly.

“I cannot,” I say.

“Mr Haxby!” I hear the door bang shut, and my every sense feels her coming closer. “Why are you being so difficult?”

“Why are _you_ hounding me, Miss Wells, when I have made it plain to you that our alliance is at an end?”

“You gave His Grace your word you would support me,” she says.

“And I have broken it,” I say, “to honour a more sacred obligation to him.”

…

I hear the clop of hooves and reach the window just in time to see Miss Wells rush down the steps and into the waiting carriage, ignoring the bewildered footman who is waiting to hand her in. 

The coachman cracks the whip and the carriage pulls away, taking Miss Wells down her straight, purposeful road.

Where is she going, I wonder, and how can she be going alone? Who is to protect her?

I spend the rest of the day at my desk, staring at a blank page.

…

That night, I awake, as I have awoken every night for the past two weeks, in the disgraceful act of spilling my seed.

But, this time, the harlot is still there. 

“Let me help you,” she says, sitting down, on the edge of my bed, and reaching for my all-too-obvious member.

“No!” I pull the bed clothes out of her hands and bunch them over my shame. 

“Mr Haxby,” she says, and I believe she is crying, “His Grace and I want to explain. Everything. Please, let us explain!” 

She reaches out, and touches my face; tears are running down her cheeks and, suddenly, I lose the power to resist her. 

We are both sobbing.

“Mr Haxby,” she pleads.

And I am finished. I take her in my arms, and we kiss, and I can no longer truly believe it is sinful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These prints, after Thomas Rowlandson, show different situations, but they're the sort of image Haxby has in mind (VERY NSFW):
> 
> https://s3-eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/lot-images.atgmedia.com/SR/35997/2914491/793-2014915145626_original.jpg


	11. In which Miss Wells and Mr H— attend a masked ball.

Our congress is frantic, and ends too soon, yet I do believe I give Miss Wells pleasure. 

What _she_ gives _me_ is a joy beyond words, a sweet relief that turns my debilitating ache into the very heights of bliss, so that, as my crisis begins to take hold, she must needs reach up and clamp her hand over my mouth, to prevent my cries awakening the entire house.

…

I collapse upon her and we lie, our bodies still joined, for some minutes. Then, “Did I hurt you?” I ask.

I feel Miss Wells's fingers stroke my hair. “You were vigorous, Mr Haxby,” she says, “but I like that.”

I ease myself from her body, and draw her close; she lays her head on my shoulder.

“Are we allies again?” she asks.

“You promised me an explanation,” I say.

“In the morning,” she replies, “we will speak with His Grace.” 

She shifts in my arms, and kisses my mouth and, as she pulls back from me, her eyes widen, for although my body is still glowing with satisfaction, my loins are ready for her again. 

…

Today, my work in the Library is most enjoyable. 

I have discovered that the collected works of Brackman, published by subscription, is missing one volume. It takes me the best part of two hours to find the relevant correspondence, and to pen a letter to the publisher requesting the final volume forthwith.

But my good mood is not to last for long.

…

His Grace summons me to the Morning Room.

As I approach, the door is already ajar, and I hear His Grace asking, “Are you happy?”

There is a long silence. Then, “Yes...” says Miss Wells. 

His Grace does not miss the uncertainty in her reply: “You do not sound sure,” he says. “Is he not all you had hoped?”

I hold my breath, for I believe His Grace is speaking of _me_ , and that he _knows_ I am Miss Wells's lover!

“He is... prickly,” says Miss Wells. “He is damaged, Malmesbury, as I am. We will never be carefree, but we're suited.”

“So, you _are_ happy?”

“I am as happy as I can be,” she says, and I imagine her smile, but I find I am disappointed by her answer.

I wait as long as it takes me to screw up my courage—and to allay any suspicion that I might have been eavesdropping—then I tap on the door and enter.

“Ah, sit down, Haxby,” says His Grace, waving me towards a chair. “Miss Wells has something to tell you but, before she does, I want you to understand that everything she is about to say to you is already known to me. If you remember nothing else, Haxby, remember that.” 

He rises from his chair, and I rise with him. 

“My dear,” he says to Miss Wells. She gives him her hand and, bending gracefully, he brings it to his lips and kisses it. “I shall see you at luncheon.” 

He nods to me. “Haxby...”

“Your Grace.” I bow.

When he has gone, I turn to Miss Wells. She gestures, and I sit again.

“Promise me that you will not have one of your tanterums,” she says.

“I do not have—”

“ _Promise_ ,” she insists. “Promise you will listen to all I have to say. Promise you will remember what His Grace has just told you. Promise—”

“I _promise_ ,” I say, because, otherwise, she might 'promise' me to death.

“Good,” she says, “then, first... you need to know that it was Malmesbury's idea I should take a lover, because—”

“ _What_ —?!”

“— _because_ he did not want to see me”—she shrugs—“deprived. Secondly”—she rises from her chair and begins to pace nervously about the room—“and please remember your promise, Mr Haxby—when I _didn't_ find a man for myself, His Grace went out and found one for me.”

“ _Who_?” I demand.

“Oh, Mr Haxby!” she laughs. “He had heard me speak of you, once or twice, and thought he'd heard a fondness—”

“He procured _me_?!” 

I raise my hands and hold my head, for it is spinning. “He came to Lewis and Lewis,” I say, remembering how uneasy His Grace had made me feel that day, “and Mr Lewis senior paraded me in front of him, like a prize bull, except that I was no prize! No wonder I felt His Grace weighing me in the balance and finding me wanting! He must have doubted he had the right man. Oh, dear God! Oh—”

“Mr Haxby!” 

There is a warning in her voice; I remember my promise, and fall silent.

“Thirdly,” says Miss Wells, and I realise she has rehearsed this speech, “whatever you may now be thinking, His Grace did need a librarian. Yes, he sought out _you_ because of _me_ , but he hired you on your own merits, for the lawyer had given you an excellent character. And he has told me since that he is very pleased with the work you are doing.”

“I shall die of shame,” I say.

Miss Wells stops mid-perambulation. “Why?!” she demands. “For two weeks you refused to touch me because you thought you were betraying His Grace; now you know beyond doubt that you have his blessing! How can you _now_ be ashamed?”

“Perhaps it is something only a man could understand,” I say.

“Ohhh, you mean that tupping me behind His Grace's back made you sinful but _manly_ , whereas tupping me with His Grace's blessing makes you... I don't know; what _does_ it make you, Mr Haxby?”

…

Back in the Library, I am haunted by her question.

Miss Wells has made it plain that she and His Grace have been using me, but I already knew that and, in truth, it not an unpleasant way to be used. My attempt to break free of her made clear how miserable my life is without her. She is right: we are well suited. 

But His Grace _knows_ that I am her lover.

And, in knowing _that_ , he knows my most intimate pleasures, just as _I_ knew the pleasures Lord Howard was enjoying in St James's Square. In that shared knowledge, there is a fellowship, of sorts, between men, which is most uncomfortable... I find myself grateful for the delicacy with which, earlier, His Grace said his piece and then left me alone with Miss Wells, so that she might give me her explanation in private.

A footman enters the Library. “Letter for you, Mr Haxby,” he says, “though the writer”—he grins—“has got your title wrong.”

He holds out his silver salver, and I take the letter from it. It is addressed to 'Mrs Haxby', and I recognise both the handwriting and the seal.

“Thank you, Wadham,” I say, and I smile back at him, as though agreeing that the address is an amusing mistake.

“Wadham, please give my compliments to Miss Wells—I believe you will find her in the Morning Room—and tell her that I have found that history of the Spartans she was looking for.”

…

Miss Wells joins me in the Library, minutes later. 

“Are we friends again, Mr Haxby?” she asks.

“I am undecided,” I say, though, in truth, we both know that I am hers, and that she need only touch me to prove it.

Miss Wells smiles. “Is there a letter from Lady Caroline?”

“Addressed to you,” I reply, and hand it over.

Miss Wells reads the address, grins at me, and breaks the seal.

“ _Dear Mrs Haxby_ ,” she reads aloud, “ _How strange that name sounds! You asked me to write should I hear any mention of The Spartans. Tonight..._ ”

Miss Wells examines the date. “Last night,” she says. 

“ _...Tonight, at cards, my friend Lady Goode's husband spoke of a masked ball, being held tomorrow—_ ”

“Tonight,” I say.

“ _—at Wood Hill, to which Lord Goode's friend, Mr Bates, replied, I'll wager the ephors will be in attendance. I do not know for certain that he referred to the same men you seek, so I leave that to your judgement. It only remains for me to say, I sincerely wish you and your husband well_ ,

“ _Caroline Howard_ ”

“Ephors,” I start to explain—

“Were like a Spartan parliament,” says Miss Wells, “except there were only five of them. Two kings and five ephors. I can read a book as well as the next person, Mr Haxby.”

Miss Wells astonishes me at every turn.

“Do you suppose,” I say, “that Lady Caroline's friends can be numbered amongst The Spartans?”

“God, let's hope not,” she says. “Married to Howard, and now a friend to raping murderers? The woman would have to attract ill fortune like a magnet attracts iron.” She looks at me, thoughtfully. “You know, with a wig, a little paint, a patch _here_ ”—she touches my chin—“a colourful suit”—she fingers my black waistcoat—“and, of course, a mask...”

“ _No_ ,” I say.

“Then, perhaps,” she says, turning her back on me, “I should ask Crispy to escort me to the ball.”

“You are a fiend,” I say, “in the shape of a damsel.”

…

By the time Miss Wells has finished, I rival Mr Monkey. 

She has obtained—I have not asked from where—a wig—“Your curls are not _a la mode_ , Mr Haxby”—with a high crown, which makes me look as though I have had an accident with His Grace's _electrical machine_ , a suit of amber-yellow silk encrusted with green spangles, an emerald-green waistcoat, and green stockings and shoes. She has painted my face, and applied a patch beneath my mouth.

Miss Wells surveys her handiwork. “Mr Haxby, you look—”

“Disgusting,” I say. “Depraved, like one of Lord Howard's foolish friends.”

“I do prefer you in your black and white,” she admits, “and with your hair all a-frenzy, but I think you will pass.”

“That is not the verdict a man about to enter the lion's den wants to hear,” I reply.

…

Two hours later, His Grace's carriage turns into the gates of Wood Hill, Lord Hawton's Palladian villa. The long approach to the house, like much of the gardens, is lit with flaming torches, and coachmen are vying to set down their charges and find a place to leave their carriage. 

Miss Wells has assured me that, at a gathering of this sort, anyone with sufficient nerve may gain entry and mix freely.

“Put on your mask, Mr Haxby,” she says.

“You do understand,” I say, adjusting the thing, “that if any of these young sparks should realise what I am and seek satisfaction, I will be at a grave disadvantage?”

“Pens at dawn,” says Miss Wells.

…

The flames paint everything a glowing red and swathe it in curls of smoke. 

Masked men and women, some dressed in fanciful costumes, some in the most outrageous states of undress, stand in groups upon the steps and between the columns; some dance; some frolic in the gardens; and some appear to be fornicating, quite openly, amongst the trees, like ancient nymphs and satyrs.

“The depths of Hell,” I say, “must look like this.”

“You think the dead will be allowed to _fuck_ in Hell, Mr Haxby?” says Miss Wells; she smiles, wickedly.

“If they are, I will no doubt feel at home there, Miss Wells,” I say, forestalling her usual jests about my own supposedly excessive taste for carnal pleasures.

She laughs, with that hint of bawdy that makes other men want to own her, and makes _me_ want to gather her in my arms and keep her safe from those other men. She is, I think, excited to be at a fashionable gathering after so long.

“I suppose it is foolish to ask whether we have a plan, Miss Wells?” I say.

“We shall mingle, watch and listen, Mr Haxby,” she replies, “and see what we can learn.”

She takes my arm and, making it appear that I am leading her, guides me up the marble steps, expertly through the crowds at the door, and into the villa.

The Entrance Hall is hung with black and dimly lit. A line of footmen, each one holding a candelabra, marks the route into the Ball Room.

“Do you dance, Mr Haxby?” Miss Wells asks.

“I _can_ dance, Miss Wells,” I reply, cautiously.

We join a _cotillion_ , dancing together, parting and coming back as we weave down the line of couples, both of us watching and listening as we move from partner to partner.

“You are an excellent dancer, Mr H—” says Miss Wells. 

I do not tell her it is because I had a good teacher, for that is _my_ secret.

Miss Wells and I reach the end of the line and, as I turn, something catches my eye: a man, standing by one of the fireplaces, who has raised his mask to mop his forehead with a handkerchief...

“Miss Wells,” I say, the next time we clasp hands, “I believe I have seen Lady Caroline's friend, Mr Bates.”

…

We slip out of the figure and, still hand-in-hand, make our way to the fireplace. Mr Bates has already moved away; I scan the crowd.

“Over there,” I say, quietly. “The man in the dark blue suit.”

“He looks so harmless,” says Miss Wells.

We follow Mr Bates through the house, out of the door, and, staying well back, across the lawn, until he stops beside one of the statues, and waits.

“Kiss me,” says Miss Wells.

I oblige.

“Lord Fallon has joined him,” says Miss Wells, watching the two men over my shoulder. “They are heading for the Grotto.”

“Can we follow them there without being seen?” I ask.

“The Grotto is like a maze,” she says, “so, yes, if we are careful.” 

Arm-in-arm, we stroll nonchalantly towards the artificial cave. 

We are almost there, when I notice a woman, dressed as an houri with a peacock feather bobbing drunkenly above her head, approaching us.

“Lady Repton,” says Miss Wells. “You stay here and keep her busy, Mr Haxby; I'll go inside.”

I grasp her arm and pull her back. “What do you mean, keep her _busy_?!”

“Kiss her, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells. “Kiss her hard, and tell her what you want to do to her.”

“I have no desire to do _anything_ to her,” I say.

Miss Wells sighs. “Then what's the most depraved thing you've ever wanted to do to _me_?”

I think of one particular painting in Great Gallery at Mereworth; I think of a certain shelf of books in the Library; and I think of an album of etchings I discovered in one of the document chests...

“I have never wanted anything but our usual carnal relations,” I say.

Miss Wells seizes me, and kisses me with so much passion, she sets my loins afire; she kisses me relentlessly, until I am so enflamed, I would take her there and then but, before I can, she pulls away. I reach out for her with a sob, but she dodges my hands. 

“Now,” she says, pushing me towards Lady Repton, “go and do that to _her_.”

…

I step shakily into the woman's path.

“Well,” says Lady Repton, looking me up and down, “you're a fine-made fellow.” 

It is not true, for I am not tall, and I am quite thin.

She lurches towards me, stumbles, I catch her, and she takes the opportunity to plant a kiss near my mouth, and a hand, with much more accuracy, lower down. 

In the past, I have kissed cheap harlots, and I have kissed an older woman, but all of them were women I had chosen. To kiss a woman I find... most unappealing, requires a skill I do not possess.

I close my eyes tightly, and let her do what she will.

…

Lady Repton has the constitution of an ox.

Where Miss Wells caresses, Lady Repton _tugs_ ; where Miss Wells excites, Lady Repton _tugs_. All of Lady Repton's attempts to seduce me are accompanied by a _tug_. By the time Miss Wells reappears, I have been most uncomfortably _tugged_.

“Charlotte the harlot!” says Lady Repton. “Is this one with you?”

“He is,” says Miss Wells.

“And does he _ever_ rise to the occasion?”

“Only for me, Lady R—,” says Miss Wells, slipping her arm through mine and drawing me away. “He's mine—is that not so, Mr H—?”

“It is, Miss Wells,” I say. “Exclusively.”

“How deliciously perverse,” says Lady Repton, good-humouredly.

The rescue is humiliating, but I can bear it, for, although Lady Repton's fingers are slender, were she to put her mind to it, I believe they could dis-member a man with a single _tug_. 

…

“You follow Lord Fallon,” says Miss Wells. “And I will follow Mr Bates.”

I pursue Lord Fallon across the lawn, loitering discreetly whenever he stops to speak to another guest. 

As we approach the house, I feel a hand on my arm.

“ _I_ know who you are under that disguise,” says Mr Monkey.

I am in no mood to be throttled and thrown to the ground again, but I am not going to cower: “Yes, I am the man who shares Miss Wells's bed,” I say.

Mr Monkey tightens his grip. “The only reason Charlotte lets you tup her's because she's using you, and if _you_ —”

I push hard against his chest: “You are mistaken, Mr Marney,” I say. “Miss Wells does not let _me_ tup _her_ ; it is _I_ who let Miss Wells tup _me_. And she tups me often.” 

I wrench my arm out of his grasp, and enter the house in search of Lord Fallon, wondering whether I have just declared myself a harlot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _cotillion_ did not become popular until about 20 years after the date at which this story is set, and was more usually danced by just four dancers, but I wanted Haxby and Charlotte to have the opportunity to check people out. Earlier Baroque dances seem to have been a matter of couples taking turns to perform incredibly complicated steps, whilst everybody else watched and criticised, and I think Haxby might have disgraced himself under those circumstances.
> 
> There is a lovely introduction to three dances of the time here:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wlU4PP1eUI
> 
> And a series of gorgeous videos starting here (but I have in mind something taking place in semi-darkness, and in a more crowded space):
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CF6SGWRMIYw


	12. In which I become Miss Wells's hero.

I hurry through the house, cursing Mr Monkey and his ill-timed assault, for I have not only lost sight of Lord Fallon, I have also lost Miss Wells.

How can a beautiful woman in a tall headdress of bright golden feathers simply disappear?

Desperately, I push through the throngs of people, searching the Entrance Hall, the Dining Room, the Music Room and the Games Room, but all I find is lechery—couples of all descriptions fornicating behind the black velvet hangings; men and women lying ruined beneath the remains of the great feast; a portly satyr making cacophonous music pounding a nymph upon the harpsichord; a trio of young bloods triumphantly spilling their seed on the bare breasts of a trollop... 

By the time I have seen all of these things, I am not only frantic to find Miss Wells, I am also becoming increasingly _stirred_.

And thoroughly disgusted with my own nature.

I am heading for the Ball Room when I catch sight of a golden headdress, flashing in the dim light and, in a shadowy corner, where anyone who was not anxious to find her might have overlooked her, I see Miss Wells, struggling with a man in a leopard mask, who has twisted her arms behind her back, and is forcing her against the wall.

At first glance, they look to be having rough carnal congress, but the villain's grasp speaks to _me_ not of rape, but of battery...

I am neither brave nor strong, and I lack the authority of a man like His Grace, or even the confidence of a high-born fop like Lord Howard, but I do not hesitate, not for one second; I rush up to the villain and, using every ounce of strength I possess, besides counting heavily upon surprise, I shove him to the floor, take Miss Wells by the hand, and run.

…

“The carriage,” I say, as we rush down the marble steps. 

I have no idea whether the villain is following us, nor how I will protect Miss Wells if he is, but I do know that we need to look less conspicuous, so I slow down, and try to hide us amongst the other guests. 

And, as if she can hear my thoughts, Miss Wells tears the golden feathers from her head and throws them away.

We walk along the line of waiting carriages, trying to keep out of sight.

“Where _is_ it?” says Miss Wells.

“There are nowhere near enough carriages here,” I say, “to carry all of the guests. The others must be waiting elsewhere—behind the house, perhaps.”

We scan the gardens.

“Can you see Mr Leopard?” I ask.

“He is coming down the steps,” Miss Wells replies, “with Bates and another man. But I know a place where we can hide.”

She leads me across the lawn, zig-zagging through the knots of guests, and avoiding the torches though, by now, most of them have either burned out or are flickering fitfully.

“The Grotto?” I say.

“Mmm.”

As we approach the entrance, we almost trip over a man and woman fornicating on the ground, and Miss Wells stoops, and expertly filches the man's cloak.

“Here,” she whispers, handing it to me.

“I am... warm enough,” I say, taken aback.

“ _To hide your yellow suit_ ,” she hisses. Miss Wells is clever and capable, and her qualities have always had the most disturbing effect on me; I put on the cloak.

She leads me into the candle-lit Grotto, down tunnels glittering with minerals, and shells, and fragments of carved stone; beneath pointed arches plundered from some ancient ruin; past statues and mosaics; over channels of running water; turning left here, and right there, until we are deep inside and I am thoroughly lost.

“How do you know this place?” I ask.

“I have been hunted in here,” she replies.

“ _Hunted_...?” I remember that Lord Hawton had almost become her keeper.

“Do not torture yourself, Mr Haxby,” she says, leading me onwards. “Hawton was just another cull.” 

We stop beside a spring; its waters, spilling from the wall, collect in a shallow bowl, cunningly fashioned from a piece of Grecian masonry. 

“Take off your mask,” says Miss Wells. “And your wig...” 

She hides the wig beneath loose rocks, then runs her hands through my unbound hair, making it stand on end. 

“Better,” she says. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

I hand it to her; she dips it in the water, wrings it out and, carefully, wipes the paint from my face. 

“Better still,” she says, smiling—and then her expression changes because, suddenly, something between us has changed... 

“Miss Wells,” I murmur, removing her golden mask, and leaning in to kiss her.

“Mr Haxby,” she whispers back.

Our eyes meet—hers are large and dark, like a doe's—and neither of us needs say another word, though she and I both know that what we are about to do could not be more foolish, given the danger we are in.

Miss Wells takes my hand and pulls me into a shadowy nook, hidden from the lighted tunnel by a turn in the wall, and we kiss again. She is tender; I am not. But when I enter her body, and she arches, I know it is with delight, for she makes a tiny noise, like pain and pleasure all in one.

She is smaller than I, and I have to crouch, for I am not strong enough to lift and hold her. I bury my face in her bosom and lunge, feeling her body respond to mine. Outside our little haven, footsteps sound and voices echo, but no one finds us, thank God, for our joining is desperate and, as we approach satisfaction, I hear her gasps turn to cries—which she stifles with her hand—and I let my own nature take its course.

Afterwards, I must needs withdraw from her straight away, for my legs have begun to ache, but Miss Wells sinks into my arms and lays her forehead upon my breast, and we hold each other tight, each feeling the other's heart beat. 

And I whisper words meant for no one's ears but hers...

…

“What happened in the house?” I ask, stroking her hair.

“Mr Bates owes Lord Fallon money,” she says, quietly. “Gambling debts—over three thousand pounds.”

“Three thousand!” Even on her very worst nights, Miss Wells had never lost more than two hundred—and the odd earring, which I had later bought back from the winner. “That must represent a substantial portion of Mr Bates's yearly income,” I say.

“Lord Fallon's threatening to shame him in public if the debt is not paid, in full, by Monday next.”

“Five days.”

“Mmm. Mr Bates said that he had already made two payments in kind—”

“In kind?! Could that mean...?”

“I don't know, Mr Haxby. It could mean anything,” says Miss Wells. “Mr Bates's initials are not A E.”

“No...”

“Lord Fallon said that payments in kind did not count; he wanted money. I didn't hear Mr Bates's reply to that because, by then, you had begun wailing—”

“I was not—”

“—so I had to come out and rescue you.” In the dim light of our nook she smiles up at me, and I think there is a fondness in her smile.

“I was not _wailing_ ,” I insist, “though my behaviour towards Lady Repton was not, I will allow, entirely manly.”

Miss Wells chuckles, deep in her throat; it is an enchanting sound. “Where did Fallon go?” she asks, after a moment.

“As it happens,” I admit, “I do not know. I was immediately accosted by Mr Marney, and Lord Fallon got away.”

“Did Marney hurt you?”

“No.” I kiss her forehead.

“I shall speak to him the next time I see him.”

“I do not need a champion, Miss Wells,” I insist, for although her concern is flattering, and although I am the first to admit that I am no fighter, I do have some pride.

“Well... If you are sure,” she replies, and kisses me back. “Mr Bates went straight to Mr Leopard in the Library,” she continues. “I could not get close enough hear what they were saying, but I could see that Mr Leopard was angry. Then I blundered into a desk, and Mr Leopard came after me. He had just caught me when you arrived—you saved me, Mr Haxby.”

“Yes,” I say, unable to stop myself smiling, “I did. Though we are still far from safe. We should go and find the carriage.”

Miss Wells steps back and scrutinises me; with my hair transformed from a white wig to dark curls, my face washed, and my gaudy suit covered by the stolen cloak, I must look quite different.

“Give me your mask,” she says, “and you have mine.” 

We exchange masks. 

“Now,” she says, “keep the cloak wrapped close about you—”

“No,” I say and, on a sudden impulse, I take it off and drape it round her shoulders. “It is _you_ he has wrestled with; it is _you_ we must disguise.” 

“But your suit is so—”

I take off my yellow-gold coat and drop it to the floor.

Miss Wells sighs. “Very well, Mr Haxby. I suppose that will have to do”

…

Slowly—turning aside whenever we hear footsteps or voices—we creep back to the entrance of the Grotto. I insist on leaving first, and Miss Wells agrees, I think, in order to keep me quiet.

“Walk out confidently,” she says.

I scan the house and grounds and, seeing no sign of Mr Leopard, beckon Miss Wells.

“Have you done this sort of thing before?” I ask, as she joins me. “For you seem to have a talent for it.”

“I have been hunted,” she reminds me.

We walk cautiously through the dirty morning light. The air is cool and damp and, in my shirtsleeves, I immediately feel the chill, but Miss Wells finds a chequered coat, discarded on a bush, and I put it on and become a Harlequin.

My transformation is complete; I can only hope that my father is not looking down on me from Heaven...

…

At the front of the house, carriages are arriving, one by one, to take their owners home.

“We cannot risk sending for His Grace's carriage,” I say, “for we would have to wait up there, in full view of everyone. We must go round the back of the house and find the carriage ourselves—it will look strange, but Jackson”—I am referring to the coachman—“is by now used to our strange behaviour.”

Hand-in-hand, we skirt the east wing of the house, passing the kitchens, and the stables.

“Do you think Mr Leopard recognised you?” I ask.

“I cannot see how he would know me.”

“You are _famous_ , Miss Wells,” I say. “From now on, you must be careful. It would be easy for him to snatch you in the Town, or even from Mereworth Park.”

“Do you really think he would go that far?” 

“It all depends on what he thinks you overheard,” I reply.

Miss Wells reaches into her pocket, and brings out a small, silver knife, with a short, sharp blade that slides neatly into the handle. It is a more valuable version of my own quill knife, which I use to keep my nibs sharp. 

“I took this from the desk I had the argument with,” she says.

“You _stole_ it from Lord Hawton's Library?”

“Hawton owes me more than a wretched knife, Mr Haxby. And I think he would prefer to lose a knife than to have to dispose of a harlot's body.”

“What about Mr Leopard's body?” I cry. “Thank God you did not use it! Dear Lord, Miss Wells, your grand scheme has got dangerous!”

…

His Grace's carriage is waiting in a line behind the stables. 

I assume that Jackson will have spent the night indoors but, as we come closer, I see him, sitting in his seat, ready to be called to the front of the house, and I silently thank God, and ask Him for His blessing upon our coachman—

Miss Wells squeezes my hand.

Approaching us, from further down the line, is a burly footman brandishing a heavy walking stick and, behind him, Mr Leopard, still wearing his mask.

“Take us home, Jackson,” I shout, as I help Miss Wells scramble into the carriage—my hands scooping and pushing her, very indelicately—then I have barely time to climb in myself and shut the door before Jackson cracks the whip and the horses pull away. 

“What are you doing?” I gasp, for Miss Wells has taken off her stolen cloak and is draping it out of the window.

“Hiding His Grace's Coat of Arms,” she replies.

…

As the carriage takes us back to Mereworth, I sit with Miss Wells in my arms, her head against my shoulder, and the rescued cloak wrapped around us.

“All those years,” says Miss Wells, softly.

“Mmm?”

“Tupped, day in, day out, by all the Reptons, the Howards, and the Hawtons of this world. And then along comes priggish Mr Haxby, and... Who would have thought it?”

I have no idea what she is talking about, but I lean down, and kiss the top of her head.

“I want you inside me,” she says. 

“Oh, Miss Wells, I...”

“I know you're too tired to fuck me”—she turns in my arms—“but”—her hand slips down between us, and finds my member—“just be inside me, Mr Haxby. Make me feel safe. Please?”

She does not have to ask me twice.

...

  
A rather murky view of the remains of Pope's Grotto, showing the (very dirty) walls encrusted with minerals, fossils and a simple mosaic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haxby's quill knife:
> 
> http://vintagepens.com/quill_knife.shtml
> 
> The most famous Grotto in 18th century England was Alexander Pope's, which I have been lucky enough to visit twice. It is badly in need of cleaning and restoration, but you can still see how the walls, lined with minerals sent from all over the world by friends and admirers, would have glittered. 
> 
> There is a drawing of the Grotto here, which makes it look much bigger than it really is:
> 
> http://hyperallergic.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/popegrotto11.jpg
> 
> Marble Hill was the home of Pope's friend, Henrietta Howard. She had an amazing garden, with a Green House, an Ice House, a Ninepin Alley, a Meadow Ground, and a Grotto. I have used this plan of the house and garden for inspiration:
> 
> http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/marble-hill-house/history-and-stories/henrietta-howards-garden/
> 
> The Grotto is the octopus-like thing on the right hand side of the plan.


	13. In which I have conversation with a harlot.

I awake and reach for Miss Wells, but the bed is empty and cold and, for one terrifying moment, I imagine her taken by Mr Leopard or one of his men, and I jerk upright, and—

 _Oh, thank God!_

She is on the floor, on her hands and knees, though she is not praying.

“Miss Wells?”

“I thought you would never wake, Mr Haxby,” she says. “Come and see.”

I climb from my bed and, retrieving the ridiculously extravagant and entirely inappropriate—for a man of my standing—banyan of pale green silk—“It matches your eyes, Mr Haxby”—which she insisted on having made for me, and which she paid for out of her own allowance—a source of much discord between us—I wrap it round me, and kneel down beside her.

“I decided it was time,” she says, “to do as His Grace suggested, and put it all on paper.”

Careless of expense, as usual, Miss Wells has pasted together several foolscap sheets, laid them on the floor, and has drawn various shapes and lines upon them, annotating the shapes in her careful but unpractised hand.

“This is where we start,” she says, pointing to one of the squares, which she has labelled 'Amelia Scanwell'.

I study her diagram. “The squares represent the young women,” I say.

“Victims,” Miss Wells confirms.

To the left of Amelia Scanwell, she has drawn a circle, labelled 'Ma', and to the left of Margaret Wells, two diamond-shapes, one labelled 'Justice Cunliffe', and the other, '?'.

I point to the second diamond. “This is the man who vanished like smoke?” I say.

Miss Wells turns to me, smiling. “Clever Mr Haxby!” She has ink on her fingers, and a smudge upon her nose, which the sinner in me finds particularly alluring... 

I watch her write 'Mr Smoke' in the second diamond.

“Who,” I ask, turning to the diagram once more, “is Emily Lacey?” Miss Lacey is a square, drawn directly above Miss Scanwell, but her name is accompanied by an interrogation point.

Miss Wells sits back on her heels.

“Emily Lacey,” she says, “was my Ma's best girl until she took herself off to Lydia Quigley's.” 

Mrs Quigley, I notice, appears on the diagram as a circle, attached by a line to Miss Lacey. 

“I don't know exactly what happened,” Miss Wells continues, “for Emily Lacey will not talk to me but, having accidentally, so she says, poisoned Lydia Quigley's son with too much laudanum, she disappeared for several days. And rumour has it that she was kept in chains, like the woman in that painting you hate so much, Mr Haxby—”

The painting she refers to—which is in His Grace's Great Gallery—depicts Andromeda, chained naked and helpless to a rock, swooning in the most _suggestive_ manner, and I do not hate it, I merely opined that such a _suggestive_ image should not be on public display.

“—until,” Miss Wells is saying, “she was rescued by the son, who, despite everything, seems to love her. She is now ensconced with him in her own house, and is making a reputation for herself as a bawd of surpassing charm and beauty.”

“You think that Lydia Quigley intended her for The Spartans? Emily Lacey would not have been a virgin,” I point out.

“No... But giving her to The Spartans would have been an excellent way to be rid of her, Mr Haxby. Like feeding a body to the pigs.” 

Miss Wells's extensive knowledge of the ways of the criminal classes comes, I believe, from reading of the exploits of murderers, thieves and highwaymen in the _Newgate Calendar_. She picks up a dish of marchpane and offers me a piece; I shake my head.

“Here,” she says, tapping the diagram, and speaking around a mouthful of sweetmeat, “we have an unknown number of previous victims.” She is showing me the square above Emily Lacey, which is labelled '???'.

“If Lydia Quigley did intend to feed Miss Lacey to The Spartans,” I say, “can we not suppose”—I take the pen from her, and draw a line from Lydia Quigley to the anonymous square—“that it was because she had procured young women for them before? And does that not give us”—I draw a triangle, above Lydia Quigley and label it 'Where?'—“a _sty_ to investigate?”

“ _Very_ clever Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, and I am treated to another smile, and another glimpse of her inky nose.

I clear my throat. “What of Maria Elton?” I ask.

“She is here,” Miss Wells replies, taking back the pen, and carefully writing Maria's name in the square beneath Amelia Scanwell.

It occurs to me that Maria Elton was taken because she was unknown to anyone. “How did you discover her, Miss Wells?” I ask.

“His Grace asked the various London coroners to inform him whenever a woman's body was found with evidence of rape and strangulation. Maria still had her prayer book in her pocket; it was inscribed with her name, 'St Michael's Church, Marston Wood', and a date.”

“The date of her confirmation,” I say. “Dear God, I feel I know her.”

“Yes,” says Miss Wells. She turns to me. “Would you like to visit her? She is buried in the churchyard at Mereton.”

“His Grace had her buried _here_?”—Miss Wells nods—“Then I will pay my respects later today.”

Miss Wells squeezes my arm, and goes back to her drawing. In the circle connected to Maria Elton, she writes 'Mrs A E'. Then, beneath Maria Elton, to the left of two more empty squares, she writes two names, one above the other: 'Mr Bates?' and 'Mr Leopard?'.

She puts down her pen and surveys the diagram. 

“We need to find,” she says, after a few moments, “Mr Smoke...”

I take up the pen, and write the list as she counts it off on her fingers.

“...Mrs A E. Mr Leopard. The mysterious place where Emily Lacey was imprisoned. And we need to learn more—”

“About Mr Bates and his payments in kind,” I say, adding his name to the list.

“Hmm,” says Miss Wells. “Where do we start, Mr Haxby?”

She turns to me with another inky smile, and I can no longer hold myself in check.

…

“Mr Haxby!” she cries, and tries to resist me—or, perhaps, tries to dominate me, I am not sure which—and we roll about the floor like two young animals, first one on top, and then the other. 

Miss Wells is quite strong, and _I_... 

I, by nature, am inclined to yield, so she quickly gains the upper hand and, sitting astride me, pins my wrists to the floor. “Now,” she says, leaning in and rocking back and forth, wantonly, “where _do_ we start—?” 

Her expression tells me she is enjoying the sensation almost as much as I. With a growl, I turn her on her back. And, as I enter her body, I see another look come upon her face—a look composed of triumph, laughter, and pure _joy_.

…

Afterwards, I lie on the floor beside her, exhausted, for Miss Wells can be extremely demanding.

“I shall come with you to Maria's grave, Mr Haxby,” she says, leaning over me.

She is flushed and her hair is tousled, and the smudge of ink on her nose is no less affecting than before; with an unsteady hand, I reach up and fondle a strand of her hair.

“And then,” she says, “we will go into the Town, and you will pay a visit to Emily Lacey.”

With this woman, there is always a sting in the tail.

…

It is one of those cool, fresh, autumn mornings, when the cloudless sky is bright blue, the trees are yellow, and the air seems charged—

“Airs,” says Miss Wells. “There is more than one kind of air, according to Mr Chadwick.”

—and the _airs_ seem charged with some vital substance, which fills the chest with _life_.

Jackson brings the carriage to a halt beside the church gate. I climb out, and hand Miss Wells down. She is carrying a bunch of pretty white flowers, picked in the Orangerie earlier this morning. I offer her my arm and, together, we enter the churchyard and walk through the graves.

Maria Elton's is marked with a simple white headstone, carved with the words,

MARIA ELTON  
Age:15  
_Till Angels awaken thee_

Miss Wells lays the flowers upon the grass.

I bow my head and say a prayer for Maria's soul, and then I ask God's forgiveness for the use we are making of her fate.

When I raise my head, Miss Wells is still standing by my side.

“We should bring Rosalie Farrow here,” she says, “to say good bye to her daughter.”

…

“Again,” says Miss Wells, as we sit in the carriage on our way into the Town, “and, this time, try to sound more natural, Mr Haxby.”

“I have studied your entry in Harris's List these three years, Miss Lacey,” I say. “But mere words do not do justice to your beauty.”

“Perfect,” says Miss Wells. “And if that doesn't do it, keep offering more money till she gives in.”

“Do I look a likely customer?” I ask, doubtfully. Miss Wells has had me put on my best suit—a sober but very expensive black moiré silk—and has embellished it with a waistcoat of strawberry-red, embroidered, in gold and silver thread, with a veritable hot house of exotic blooms. I look like a second son, who has been forced into the Church against his will but has refused to forgo his finery.

“Clergymen,” says Miss Wells, “are the most voracious of all culls, Mr Haxby, believe me, especially reluctant clergymen. And puritans, too, of course, for only a passionate man need deny his nature.”

I ignore the implication.

“Once you're alone with her—”

“I shall keep my distance,” I say.

“Mr Haxby!” Miss Wells laughs. “You are in no danger from Emily Lacey! She would prize her luck indeed, were you to...” 

She stops, mid sentence, and her expression changes. “Yes, be sure to keep your distance,” she agrees, taking hold of my hands and kissing them. Then she adds: “It's a pity my disguise wouldn't work with her.”

I do not, in general, like to see Miss Wells in breeches but, on this occasion, I agree with her, for I do not want to suffer with Miss Lacey the violation I suffered at the hands of Lady Repton.

“So,” Miss Wells repeats, “once you're alone with her, keep your distance”—she kisses my hands again—“and tell her about your determination to get justice for poor Maria Elton.”

“Do you think she will help us?”

Miss Wells releases my hands, and settles back in her seat. “Emily Lacey does not have an unselfish bone in her body,” she says, smoothing her skirts, “and she owes her bawdy house to her relations with Charles Quigley, who, though his mother both disgusts and frightens him, still loves her deeply, so... You will need to avoid any mention of Lydia Quigley's part in The Spartans' crimes and, instead, play upon Emily Lacey's anger towards the men who would have killed her.”

“I will do my best,” I say, “but do not blame me when she throws me out upon my ear. And, Miss Wells,” I add, “please: _promise_ me that you will not leave the carriage whilst I am gone.”

Miss Wells comes to sit beside me and gathers me in her arms, and I am immediately distracted by the soft warmth of her bosom.

But I am not so distracted that I do not notice she has made me no promise.

…

The door of Emily Lacey's bawdy house is opened to me by a liveried footman, but I am welcomed by another man: a young, plump, affable sort, dressed in the pale, French style Lord Howard would sometimes affect.

He leads me into a Drawing Room, where men of rank sit drinking, and playing cards, and fondling the harlots who entertain them, and he introduces me to the lady of the house.

“Well,” says Miss Lacey, looking me up and down with a look of admiration she must practise before a mirror, “what can I do for _you_ , sir?”

Miss Emily Lacey is small and blonde and, beneath the paint and patches, much younger than I had imagined. She is dressed as Miss Wells used to dress, in a low-cut gown of pink silk and a jaunty little hat. The gown has a line of large bows down the front, tempting a man to think that, with a few idle pulls, he might expose her bosom in all its glory...

“You are more beautiful,” I say, gallantly, “even than Harris describes,”—and she would, indeed, be pretty were someone to wash the paint from her face.

Miss Lacey laughs. “You have read my entry?” 

She is, as Miss Wells said, particularly vulnerable to flattery on that point.

“I have been enchanted by it these past three years,” I say. “And... and...” 

And all the words I practised with Miss Wells escape me; I feel myself colouring.

“Awww,” she says, evidently delighted by my blushes, “don't be shy.” 

She takes my arm and, patting my hand, draws me further into the room. She is treating me as a beautiful woman might treat a youth, though she is far younger than I. 

“I have girls here, sir,” she whispers, “who can make the most bashful of men feel like a god, even a man of the cloth...”

“I want none but you, Miss Lacey,” I say, bravely.

“You're sweet,” she says, “but I don't go with gentlemen any more.”

“Not even with one who has admired you so long from afar? One who has dreamed of carnal union with the nonpareil of Harris's List?”

She bites her lower lip; beneath the paint, she looks disturbingly like a little girl, but she is not, and I know that she is considering my request.

“I have coin enough,” I say, softly, “for I would not expect to enjoy so rare a prize as Emily Lacey for anything less than”—I think of Miss Wells, and gamble—“five times the price of another woman.”

“What's your name?” she asks.

“Thomas,” I say, because it is just possible that she has heard Miss Wells speak of me, and my last name is not a common one.

“Thomas,” she says reaching up to tidy away a strand of my hair. “Come with me...”

…

The bedroom Miss Lacey leads me to is decorated in the same French style as the Drawing Room, with an opulent, gilded bed covered in rose silk brocade, a magnificent Turkey carpet and, before the fireplace, a large sofa, upholstered to match the bed.

She closes the door behind us.

“Miss Lacey,” I say, taking a money pouch from my pocket, “you are an enchanting woman, and the money I promised you is yours, but I am not here to have carnal knowledge of you.”

“Carnal knowledge!” she says. It is surprising how many women of the less respectable sort—Miss Wells included—seem to like my way of speaking; Miss Lacey is sufficiently diverted to be willing to hear me out: “What _are_ you here for then, Thomas?”

“Can we sit?”

I take a seat on the sofa. Miss Lacey sits herself upon on my lap, and drapes an arm around my shoulders, in a manner that is so like Miss Wells's, I am both horrified and fascinated by her.

Briefly, I tell her the story of Maria Elton, inasmuch as Miss Wells and I have been able to put it together, and I beg her to tell me her own story, “For I am determined,” I say, “to see these men brought to justice.”

“How do you know I have a story?” she asks, cautiously.

“It was just the faintest rumour of a rumour, Miss Lacey,” I lie, “from a man in Greene's chocolate house. Naturally, I have pursued it, as I must pursue all such rumours, if I am to identify the men who would have murdered you.”

“Naturally...” she says.

“I am not here to do you harm,” I say, honestly. “You can be sure that neither your name, nor that of your house, will ever pass my lips.”

She looks thoughtfully at my mouth.

“Promise you won't mention Quiggy, either.”

“Quiggy?”

“Charles,” she says.

 _Lydia Quigley's son, her lover_. 

“I promise,” I say.

“Well then, Thomas,” she says, “it's like this: I wake up in an empty house, tied to a post, with Lydia Quigley—old Dame Death, herself—standing over me. 'True pain,' she says, 'awaits,' for she's sold me to pack of dogs, who plan to rip my throat out—”

“Did she use those exact words?” I ask.

“Something about the hounds coming,” says Miss Lacey. “Then she leaves me there for hours, tied up, with no food or water—maybe over night—and when she comes back, she washes me.”

“You must have been very frightened,” I say.

“Bloody terrified. Then old Quigley puts a gag in my mouth, and leaves me again. But Charlie comes—”

“Mr Quigley?”

“Yes. He's followed his mother, you see, to find me. Charlie comes and tells Justice Cunliffe—”

“Justice Cunliffe was there as well?”

“Being a creep. But Charlie says, 'I have to guard her, for Moma.' So the Justice leaves, and Charlie and Nancy Birch set me free, and hide me.”

“What an ordeal,” I say, and—much as I do feel for Miss Lacey, for she has a certain coarse charm about her—I cannot help imagining Miss Wells in that room, alone and frightened, and wondering how far we need fear Mr Leopard...

“Will that help?” asks Miss Lacey.

I question her about the house and its location, and she leaves me for a few moments, to verify certain details with Charles Quigley.

“Thank you,” I say, when she returns to my lap.

“You _will_ remember your promise, won't you, Thomas,” she says, brushing her thumb over my lips. “You'll not mention me or Quiggy?”

“I will remember.”

“And you're _sure_ ,” she asks, cupping my chin, “that you don't want any 'carnal knowledge' with me?”

“I am spoken for, Miss Lacey,” I reply.

“Betrothed?”

“As good as.”

She looks at me, shrewdly. “And you're in love with her?”

“I am.”

“But wouldn't you like to _try_ it with a harlot, Thomas? Hm?” She slides her hand down between us, and strokes my member through the silk of my breeches. “Just this once?”

I struggle to find an answer, for she is rubbing that part of me Miss Wells often claims I think with. “I... I... I _have_ a harlot,” I say.

“What?!” she asks, laughing.

“My... She _was_ a harlot,” I explain. “But she is mine now.”

“And that's why you're so determined to stop these men,” says Miss Lacey; “for _her_.” 

I wonder whether all harlots are as quick as Miss Lacey and Miss Wells; perhaps they have to be.

“It is,” I reply.

She takes her hand away. 

“You send 'em all to Hell, Thomas,” she says, “and when you do, you give them a”—she jerks her hand in an obscene gesture—“from me,” and she gets up off my lap.

I rise, bow to her and turn to leave.

“Wait,” she says.

I turn back. She has opened the pouch of money I gave her, and poured out a handful of coins. 

“This is for my story,” she says. “I haven't earned the rest, but I will, if you come back.”

She puts the pouch in my hands and, looking up at me, fixes her gaze on mine; and, again, her manner reminds me so much of Miss Wells's, it is uncomfortable. 

“She's a lucky woman, your harlot, Thomas,” she says. “I bet a decent man like you's lovely in bed.”

…

I hurry back to the carriage and, anxious to see Miss Wells and to tell her what I have learned, I open the door—

“Jackson,” I call to the coachman, “where is she?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Charlotte, who clearly enjoys dressing her clueless lover, Mr Haxby has a banyan, though his is pale green:
> 
> https://1gm8d73foqeh1436341icth6-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/141606.jpg
> 
> Natural philosophers like Mr Chadwick were aware that 'air' was not a single substance. In the second half of the 18th century, they discovered four different types of air: _fixed air_ (carbon dioxide), _dephlogisticated_ or _fire air_ (oxygen), _noxious air_ (nitrogen) and an incredibly flammable air they later called hydrogen! About 20 years after this story is set, having discovered oxygen, and tried it himself, Joseph Priestly wrote: 'The feeling of it in my lungs was not sensibly different from that of common air, but I fancied that my breast felt peculiarly light and easy for some time afterwards. Who can tell but that in time, this pure air may become a fashionable article in luxury. Hitherto only two mice and myself have had the privilege of breathing it.'


	14. In which Miss Wells shows her displeasure.

“I'm to tell you she's in the chocolate house, Mr Haxby,” says Jackson, the coachman.

“The maddening woman!” I cry, and I see Jackson smile. “Stay here. Be ready to leave the moment we return.”

“Yes, Mr Haxby.”

As I rush down the street, I am tortured by visions of Miss Wells, struggling as she is dragged into a carriage, Miss Wells, chained to a wall, Miss Wells, beaten by Mr Leopard, Miss Wells—

I wonder what Jackson must think of us; whatever it may be, I hope His Grace has ordered him to keep it to himself.

I reach the Market and, as I am crossing the piazza, weaving haphazardly through the crowd, someone thrusts a hand bill at me. I take it, and hurry on.

Greene's chocolate house is busy; men are talking, smoking, and enjoying chocolate—in the corner, a young fool is lecturing his fellows on the merits of atheism—and—thank God!—Miss Wells is sitting in the window with the odious Lord Hawton. 

I linger by the door, trying to catch my breath.

As I watch, the odious lord makes some fatuous comment, and Miss Wells throws back her head and laughs, and her beautiful bosom quivers... 

_Dear God!_

Miss Wells is laughing in that bawdy fashion that made her the toast of the Town.

I hate to see her like that; she is so much better than that.

I clench my hands, and feel the hand bill I had forgotten I am holding; suddenly, I have an idea: I fold the paper in half, and half again, so that the print is hidden inside, straighten it as best I can, and approach Miss Wells's table.

“A message from Mereworth, Miss Wells,” I say, bowing deeply.

“Are they dressing servants as silk merchants these days?” says the odious lord, looking down his long nose at my best suit and my florid waistcoat.

Miss Wells, meanwhile, is studying me and the 'note' in my hand. She is quick; she knows there are only two possibilities: either some terrible thing has happened to His Grace and someone has ridden post-haste into Town in search of us, or—I see her scan my face for a clue—I am bluffing, in which case, should she take the paper from me and open it before the odious lord, I will be humiliated—and His Lordship may even ask for satisfaction.

“His Grace,” says Miss Wells, “will dress his servants as he pleases, Hawton.” 

She rises from the table, takes her leave of him, and follows me outside.

…

My relief is short-lived, for Miss Wells makes her anger plain.

She does not speak to me as we walk back to the carriage; she does not speak to me on the long, and—on this occasion—extremely _strained_ journey home; she does not speak to me as I hand her down from the carriage and follow her into the House, and, very pointedly, she does not speak to me at supper, despite His Grace's continuing efforts to draw us both into a discussion.

After supper, I wait until the servants have left her, and tap on her bedroom door.

Miss Wells does not open it.

I tap again.

Still she does not open the door.

I go in.

She is sitting in bed, reclining in a nest of pillows, her shift slipping down with a studied carelessness, her long hair brushed until it shines, and artfully arranged about her bare shoulders. 

She is irresistible, and she is waiting to punish me.

“I did not admit you,” she says, coldly.

I bow my head in acknowledgement.

“I cannot stand your stupid, servile face! Get out of my sight!”

I ignore her command, and climb into bed beside her.

She turns her back on me.

…

I lie awake for most of the night. 

It is not the physical satisfaction I crave, but the intimacy that comes with carnal congress: I want to make Miss Wells wrap her arms and legs around me and kiss me in sheer pleasure; I want to hear her cry _my_ name in her moments of crisis. But every time I speak to her, she stiffens, and when I venture to brush my fingers over her back, she pulls away from me, as though my touch burned.

…

When I awake, from no more than a few moments' fitful sleep, she is gone already.

I return to my own room, wash, dress and, unable to face breaking my fast in convivial company, I go straight to the Library.

Sitting at my desk, I cannot work, for _I_ have done nothing wrong! And Miss Wells has not heard what I learned from Emily Lacey, nor of the line I can now draw on her diagram, between Lydia Quigley and Justice Cunliffe.

I wipe my pen and lay it on the inkstand, rise, stretch, and walk over to the window. Outside, a damp mist lingers, detaching the trees from the earth and bleaching them of their colours, making Mereworth Park look like one of those Chinese paintings His Grace esteems so highly. 

I rest my forehead on the glass. If an angel were to appear to me now, and grant me my dearest wish, it would be to accompany Miss Wells somewhere in the carriage, watching fondly as she leans to look out across the park—

The Library door opens behind me; I turn.

“Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, the harshness in her voice telling me that she is still angry with me, “put on your coat and hat. We are going out.”

…

As the carriage pulls away from the House, I watch Miss Wells turn to look out of the window; my wish has been granted, but the coldness between us dampens the pleasure of it. Still, I have chosen to accompany her, and to protect her—

“ _Protect_ me?” Miss Wells scoffs. “You'll be as much protection as a lap dog!”

“Then if I fail,” I say, “it will not be from want of devotion.”

Miss Wells sighs. “Why do you have to be so... so peevish?”

“I am not—!”

“You ruined everything, Mr Haxby! A few moments more with Hawton, and I would have learned Mr Leopard's name!”

I think Miss Wells overestimates her powers of interrogation, but I do not want to anger her further. “Where are we going?” I ask, changing the subject.

“To visit Mrs Bates,” she says, smoothing her skirts. “Jackson delivered my visiting card, and she replied with hers, so I am invited. She must be curious to see the notorious Charlotte Wells.”

It is yet another of her hare-brained schemes. “And what do you plan to say to her?” I ask. “Good afternoon Mrs Bates—oh, by the way, do you happen to know whether your husband has a taste for raping and throttling young virgins?”

“ _Mr Haxby_!” Miss Wells's voice rises at least an octave higher than normal. She smooths her skirts again. “We shall exchange pleasantries, and I shall pass on an invitation to supper from His Grace.”

“And what am _I_ to do?”

“You are to wait for me in the Kitchen,” she says, “with your eyes and ears open. So tame your hair, and try to look less like a man who hasn't had a fuck in weeks.”

“ _One night_ ,” I say, though whether that clears me or condemns me, I am not sure.

…

Bramfield, home of Mr and Mrs Bates, is a fine house in the modern style, set in a small park. 

Jackson takes the carriage up to the door, I get out, and hand Miss Wells down, and we wait until she has been admitted before I climb up beside Jackson and he drives us round to the back of the house.

I am let in at the servants' entrance and taken into the Kitchen, where the cook, Mrs Sutton, makes me welcome, sitting me down at the kitchen table and plying me with pork pie and lemonade. 

As His Grace's Librarian, I have a standing somewhere between gentleman and servant, and am therefore what is called 'a good catch'—for no one knows that, when all is as it should be, I am Miss Wells's lover. Once Mrs Sutton has established that I am unmarried, several maids come into the kitchen to have a good look at me and, one of them, a very young girl who introduces herself as Tilly, sits down beside me to peel a pile of root vegetables.

I wonder how I am expected to learn anything of Mr Bates and his disgusting carnal proclivities from an elderly woman and a freckly young girl.

As it happens, luck is with me.

First, I am drawn into a long and tedious conversation with Mrs Sutton, about the weather and its effects on the quality of vegetables. Then Tilly asks me about the ladies of London—a conversation for which my rather intimate knowledge of Miss Wells's wardrobe proves invaluable. Next, I learn that Mr and Mrs Bates call Tilly 'Smith' because her last name is the same as the cook's.

“Have you worked here long?” I ask.

“Almost three weeks now, Mr Haxby,” says Tilly, as though three weeks were a lifetime. Then she leans close, and adds, softly, “I am Mrs Sutton's great niece. That's why we have the same name. She put in a good word for me when the last girl upped and left.”

“That was kind of her,” I say. “Upped and left?”

“Without so much as a _word_ ,” Tilly replies. “Aunt Tilda—Mrs Sutton, I mean, came down to start the day's work and the fires wasn't lit!” She holds up her hands as if to say, Can you believe it?

I am warming to Tilly.

“So, the girl had just... disappeared?” I ask.

“Packed up her things and flitted in the night,” the cook confirms. 

I have to admit that Miss Wells—or, more likely, His Grace—has a fine knack for the business of spying, though I do sometimes wish that they would discuss their stratagems with _me_ before sending me out to do the work. My mind races, trying to find a way to discover more about the missing girl...

“Perhaps,” I say, at last, “there was an illness in her family.”

“Jane didn't have no family, Mr Haxby,” says Mrs Sutton. “She was an orphan girl, from the Foundling Hospital. Pretty little thing, though.”

“She must have been young,” I say.

“Same age as Tilly,” she replies. “Would you like one of these jellies, Mr Haxby?”

I am just finishing my second, when word comes down that Miss Wells is ready to leave. 

As I am saying good bye, a thought occurs to me.

“Be careful, Tilly,” I say. “Be sure to keep her safe at night,” I tell the cook, quietly.

…

When we leave Bramfield, it is starting to rain.

By the time we reach Budworth, the rain has become a torrent, and the road is being washed away from under us. Jackson brings the horses to a halt and, climbing down from his seat, knocks upon the door. I open the window.

“We'll not get home in this rain, Mr Haxby,” he says, water streaming from his hat. “There was a coaching inn about two miles back. If we turn now, before the mud gets too bad, I reckon we'll make it there.”

“Yes, do it,” I agree, immediately.

I close the window. Jackson climbs back into his seat and, with a few cracks of the whip, proceeds to turn the carriage. Miss Wells, bracing herself, says nothing; she will berate me for my own behaviour as though the fate of the world depended on it, but she is far too sensible to complain about the weather, or to blame _me_ for its inconvenience.

The journey back to the coaching inn is slow, for Jackson must needs dismount and lead the horses through the mud and, after one particularly frightening slide, I consider asking him to let me take Miss Wells and proceed on foot, so that I can get her to safety and send the ostler back to help him but, eventually, we arrive at the inn and, leaving Jackson to deal with the carriage, Miss Wells and I run through the rain, and enter its welcoming shelter.

The place is already busy, but Miss Wells quickly charms her way to the bar and we order some food, and two tankards of burnt sherry, and I pay for Jackson to be well taken care of.

We find a table near the fire and sit, drinking hot sherry, and eating excellent steak and kidney pie. Miss Wells's irrepressible nature makes her the centre of attention, and she quickly puts the other stranded travellers in a festive mood. 

She is even, I think, becoming a little less distant towards me.

It is soon apparent that no one can continue their journey tonight, and Miss Wells sends me to arrange accommodation. At first the landlord insists he has no room, but when I offer to pay double, not only for Miss Wells and myself but also for Jackson, the horses, and the space for the carriage, he suggests the attic: “We use it to store trash, sir, but there's an old bed up there the wife can make up, and I dare say I can clear you a bit of space around it.”

He does not, I notice, ask whether Miss Wells and I are married...

I go back to Miss Wells, and we sit in the busy parlour until the landlord calls us, then climb three flights of rickety stairs to the attic, which is cold and dusty but, as promised, contains an ancient bed, which has been made up with clean sheets and a blanket.

I watch Miss Wells, standing with her head bowed beneath the sloping ceiling, take off her gown, and I long to help her unlace her stays...

 _I_ cannot spend another night like the last one, but the more I try to appease her, the more Miss Wells finds my _servility_ offensive. I consider being _firm_ with her, but I will never force Miss Wells—I only fight back when she grabs me first. 

And, tonight, she is showing no inclination to grab me.

“I shall see if the landlord can spare us an extra blanket,” I say, and go downstairs to calm down. I can get no blanket, though I do manage to beg two extra candles—for I know Miss Wells hates the dark—and some brandy.

When I return to the attic, Miss Wells has spread everything she can find upon the bed for warmth and got in beneath it, and she is looking particularly beautiful, sitting in the glow of the candlelight, with my top coat pulled up under her chin.

I set the tray on a little table the landlord has put beside the bed and, sitting down, pour two glasses of brandy.

“I thought you didn't drink liquor, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, tartly, as I hand her a glass, and now I am certain that her anger towards me is abating.

“You know very well that, under normal circumstances, I do not,” I say.

I watch her down her brandy in one, and hold out her glass for more. I pour her another drink, and take a few sips of mine, then I undress down to my shirt, and climb into bed beside her.

Considering the circumstances, it is not unpleasant to lie with Miss Wells beneath the weight of the bedclothes, some curtains, a few canvas sacks, my coat, and her cloak, in the soft candlelight, with the rain drumming rhythmically on the roof.

All it needs is for us to be reconciled.

“Miss Wells...” I begin, but I _will_ not apologise, for I have done nothing wrong. “Ever since the masked ball, I have been having visions of you, raped and throttled by Mr Leopard, or with your head broken by his man. I could not leave you with Lord Hawton, for _I do not trust him_!” Then, more calmly, I add: “I believe he may be one of them.”

“So do I,” says Miss Wells.

I turn onto my side, to face her. In the dim light, I can see little more of her than her delicate profile. “If you distrust him, then why did you put yourself in danger?” I ask.

“I was in a chocolate house, Mr Haxby!” she cries, her exasperation breaking its bounds. “Another minute or two and I would have known Mr Leopard's name, but, oh, no, _you_ have to come barging in with your ridiculous 'message', and I have to get up and leave, to protect you.”

 _I_ thought my ruse a clever one.

“Can we at least,” I say, “return to being”—what is the word she always uses?—“allies, Miss Wells?”

Miss Wells turns to face me. “If you really want to get back into my good graces, Mr Haxby, you should begin by fucking me,” she says. “ _Hard_.”

I am so surprised, I cannot speak.

“Well,” she says, turning onto her back again, and folding her arms across her chest, “if you aren't up to it...”

…

I quickly give the lie to that accusation, and Miss Wells's passionate response tells me that she has missed our congress as much as I.

After our first joining, I spend a long time beneath the bedclothes, enjoying her body, kissing her and—dear God, forgive me—suckling her, and, holding my member in my hand, stroking her with it, whilst she lies still for me, but when I begin to kiss and caress her most private parts, she stops me.

“I want you on top of me, Mr Haxby,” she says, grasping my hair; “I want you to fuck me like a savage; I want to feel you come _hard_ inside me.”

…

When we awake in the morning, the sun is streaming through the tiny window, and our makeshift bedroom is the warmest, most comfortable place in the whole world.

…

“You look nice,” says Miss Wells, as we settle in the carriage.

In truth, I look no different from usual, save that I am wearing yesterday's linen, but she and I have spent most of the night pleasuring one another, and I have found that carnal pleasures, however they may begin, tend to engender feelings of affection, as well as making the world seem a brighter and more colourful place. Even on that night in St James's Square, when Miss Wells and I joined in anger, our shared passion inspired the most tender feelings in me—

“I thought fucking me _revolted_ you, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells.

—the most _tender_ feelings in me, though when, the very next day, I found her packing up her things—

“Didn't you say they were Lady Caroline's things?”

—the things that Lady Caroline had _paid_ for, so soon after our union, I naturally felt _used_. “For you must have known,” I say, “even as you were seducing me, that you were about to leave.”

“Let us not fall out again, Mr Haxby,” she says, taking my hand in hers, and bringing it to her lips. “ _You_ imagined we would continue to play our games, but with all the added excitement of fucking, and _I_ thought that, by conquering you, I would somehow feel better— _stronger_ —but we were both wrong. Think what it would have been like, going behind Howard's back, deceiving your Lady Caroline—”

“I do not know why you—”

“ _Because_ , Mr Haxby,” she says, emphasising her words by pinching my cheek, an endearment I find intensely annoying, “if I had not led you astray, you _would_ have spent the rest of your days chastely admiring Lady Caroline, shrivelling up and never knowing your own passion— _no_ ,” she says, returning to the previous subject, “no, had I stayed on in St James's Square, you and I would have fought and fucked at every turn, just as we do now, and Howard would have caught us, and killed you, and locked me in the cellar to use when he would.”

“That is the stuff of a cheap novel,” I say, though I know Miss Wells does not exaggerate.

I lean back in the seat, cradling her in my arms, and thinking of her grand scheme, wondering how I can keep her safe from the odious lord and, suddenly, it occurs to me that the solution is perfectly simple: all she need do is ask His Grace—

“Ask His Grace what?” says Miss Wells.

“Ask His Grace to invite Lord Hawton to one of his evenings of _scientism_ ,” I say.

“Oh, clever Mr Haxby! Clever, clever, clever Mr Haxby!” she says.

And I get a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, from the Online Etymology Dictionary:
> 
> trash (n.) late 14c., "thing of little use or value, waste, refuse, dross".


	15. In which sparks fly between Mr Chadwick and me.

“First, we prepare the spirits of wine,” says Mr Chadwick to our imaginary audience.

The Prodigy has insisted that I assist _him_ in this particular demonstration, for he does not want to put Miss Wells at risk and, although I may agree with him as far as Miss Wells's safety is concerned, I am not entirely comfortable with his eagerness to risk _my_ life and limb in the name of _scientism_.

Nonetheless, I take up the large, metal spoon, fill it with spirits of wine, and hold it out whilst he touches his candle flame to it. The spirits catch light and, straightway, he blows them out. 

“Good,” says Mr Chadwick. “Now that the spirits are warmed, my assistant”—I glare at him—“that is, _Mr Haxby_ , will electrify them.”

We have already filled up His Grace's _electrical machine_ with _electric virtue_. I climb onto the _electric stool_ and reach for the _prime conductor_ , hesitating momentarily because I have touched the _prime conductor_ in the past, without benefit of the _electric stool_ 's protection, and I never want—

“'Tis quite safe,” the Prodigy urges.

With a sigh, I seize hold of the brass tube and, to my great relief, feel nothing; behind Mr Chadwick, I see that Miss Wells is smiling at me—fondly, I think.

“And now,” says the Prodigy, “with nothing more than my finger...”

He points his forefinger toward the spoon.

A great spark of electrical fire shoots from the bowl to his fingertip; the spirits of wine erupt in a flash of flame, and I—in my great surprise—fall from the _electric stool_ , hitting my head on the floor with a _crack_.

“Mr Haxby!” cries Miss Wells, rushing to my side.

“Take care, Miss Wells,” says Mr Chadwick, “for he may yet discharge himself—um—I mean, he may yet communicate the _electric virtue_ to you...”

I, meanwhile, am lying upon the floor, my body in terrible agitation and blood issuing from my nose.

“At least you'll know what to expect next time, Mr Haxby,” says the Prodigy.

…

Ignoring my protests—once I am able again to speak—Miss Wells instructs two footmen to carry me to my room and put me to bed. 

Then His Grace, having been informed of my accident, summons his own doctor, who, after much poking and prodding, and after bleeding me to prevent an inflammation, gives me a large dose of laudanum...

…

_The ache in my bones and the taste of vomit in my mouth are as nothing compared to the twin miseries of lust and disgust I suffer, tormented by the noises of vigorous copulation coming from Miss Wells's bedroom._

_“_ You'll never know what it means to have a woman like Charlotte Wells _,” says Lord Howard, standing before me in nothing but his shirt and nightcap, and with his foolish face still streaked with paint. “_ Such bliss is only for the chosen few... _”_

_I rise from my desk, and go to answer the door._

_“_ Move aside! _” says Miss Wells, pushing me out of the way._

 _“I am_ not _yours to command!” I cry, for she has goaded me once too often._

_Miss Wells pauses on the stair, turns, and, coming back, shoves me against the wall. Her purpose is clear, but I am confident I am in no danger—until, that is, I feel her hand—_

_“_ Ah... ___”_

__Oh, dear God!

 _For a moment, she thinks she has me beaten but, no, I do_ not _lack those parts of a man! Exerting my strength, I take control, pinning her to the wall, and we kiss... Then all is a scramble as we pull our garments aside and join our bodies—_

 _“_ Brutus! _” cries Lord Howard. “_ Traitor! _”_

 _“_ You do _babble_ so, Howard _,” Miss Wells laughs. “_ Fuck me, Mr Haxby; fuck me hard! _”_

_I grasp her wrists and do as she bids, and feel her body responding to mine; her passion draws the hot blood down my back and up my thighs, filling my loins with potency, until there is such a quantity of seed built up in me, I must needs—_

_“_ Damn you, Haxby, for a canting thief! _” cries Lord Howard, lashing my back with his horsewhip. “_ You—you sneering hypocrite! You—you— _”_

 _“_ Ahhhhhh _,” I cry, and empty myself inside Miss Wells, as she cradles me in her arms._

… 

“Mr Haxby?” 

Miss Wells is leaning over me, sponging my brow. 

“Shhh,” she says, “shhh, shhh, _shhhhhh_ ; don't weep, Mr Haxby; _shhhhhh_...”

…

I have no idea how much later I wake to find Miss Wells sitting patiently by my bedside, watching over me.

“Was I raving?” I ask.

“You _were_ delirious,” she admits. “It was the laudanum.”

“Oh, dear God...” I lift the bedclothes, and find confirmation of my worst fear.

“I keep telling you it's nothing to be ashamed of, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, getting up from her seat, and sitting on the edge of my bed. “Dr Mason says it's simply a man's way of voiding an excess of vital spirits.” She strokes my hair back from my face.

“Such... _voiding_ is not a matter of natural philosophy, Miss Wells,” I say. “It is a matter of lust—thwarted lust and imaginary congress. And I am surprised at Dr Mason: he should not have spoken of such things to you.”

Miss Wells laughs. “It was _I_ who asked _him_ about it, Mr Haxby,” she says. “And, given the number of men I have helped void their excesses over the years, I think I am quite safe hearing it spoken of.” She cups my face in her hand. “Is it uncomfortable?”

I turn my head and press my lips to her palm. “Yes...” I admit.

“Poor Mr Haxby,” she says and, reaching down beneath the sheets, she takes me in her hand, and quickly sets my body to rights.

…

“Were you dreaming of Howard?” Miss Wells asks. She is lying on the bed beside me: she above the bedclothes, and I beneath. “I thought I heard you say his name.”

I feel a blush spread from the roots of my hair to my chest. “I dreamed he was watching us.”

“Fuck?” she says.

I nod.

“And I, no doubt,” she says, teasingly, “was praising your performance.” I look away, and she laughs. “You cannot resist boasting, can you, Mr Haxby? Even in your sleep.” 

Her taunt is unfair. “I was not boasting, Miss Wells,” I say; “I was feeling guilty.”

“Ah, guilty. Yes, of course!” Still laughing, she leans close, and whispers in my ear: “You have earned the right to boast a little, now and then, Mr Haxby.” She kisses my cheek. “Are you well enough to be left alone?”

My disappointment must show upon my face. 

“I would rather stay here with you,” she says, “but I must speak with the Butler, the Housekeeper and the Cook about tonight, make sure that the Drawing Room is decorated, and that Mr Chadwick has everything he needs.”

“ _Tonight_? How long was I asleep?”

“Above eighteen hours, I think,” Miss Wells replies. “Are you hungry? I shall send up one of the maids with some of Mrs Brawne's famous brown soup. And”—she kisses my hand—“I'll be back just as soon as everything's safely underway. Will you be well enough to assist Mr Chadwick tonight?”

“Of course,” I say. “And the Prodigy will not strike me down a second time.”

…

When Miss Wells is gone, I lie in bed, thinking of her, and of my strange dream.

The more I consider it, the more it seems to me that we both are right: my dream's substance was born of guilt—guilt at my having become my master's mistress's lover—but, at the same time, there _is_ some pride, for Miss Wells has chosen me, and I am her lover, whereas Lord Howard was only her keeper, and—for all the cries of passion I used to hear from her— _he_ merely used her, and she _pretended_. Even on that night, in St James's Square, that turning-point for all three of us, what she and I had was _real_.

Miss Wells has given me so many accounts of her state of mind on that night; all differ in detail, and none of them rings true. And nor can I fix my own state of mind then, either.

I suspect that memories change over time, influenced by subsequent experience—I suspect I cannot recall my feelings for Miss Wells then without those feelings being tempered by what I feel for her now... I have never thought myself the sort of man who feels _happiness_ , but when I awoke in the attic of that coaching inn, with Miss Wells in my arms and the sun streaming through the window, I do believe I was happy.

Now _there_ is a project for the Prodigy: studying the intricacies of a man's mind!

I close my eyes and, as I reach out to God, it occurs to me that, since the day I first met Miss Wells, my prayers have been growing ever more complicated.

…

I am dozing when the door opens and one of the maids enters with a tray. I watch her set it down and close the door before she fetches it to my bedside.

“Good morning, Mr Haxby,” she says.

It is Fanny, one of the young women I have been teaching her letters. She is a lively girl, and forward, and her being in my bedroom with me in a state of undress makes me uncomfortable.

Fanny, however, has no qualms: she leans over me as I sit up, and arranges my pillows behind me and, once I am settled, she unfolds a towel, lays it over my chest and, before I can protest, she perches on my bed, takes a spoon from the tray, dips it in the soup, and brings it to my mouth.

“I can feed myself, Fanny,” I say.

“It's no trouble, Mr Haxby,” she replies, smiling.

I drink the soup, then take the spoon from her hand.

Reluctantly, she surrenders it and, at a nod from me, moves the tray to my lap. 

“You need not stay, Fanny,” I say.

“But wouldn't you rather I did, Mr Haxby?” she replies...

And then her hand walks across the bedclothes, and comes to rest upon my thigh.

“Fanny!” I cry.

“Everyone knows you want Miss Wells, Mr Haxby,” she says, “but you can't have her, and you can have me—and I am younger than her, and would give you lots of children.”

Her hand slips under the tray.

“Fanny,” I say, angrily, “I do not want to get you dismissed, but I _will_ complain to the Housekeeper if you do not leave this room at once!”

Fanny pulls back her hand and, all but cowering, stares at me with huge, startled eyes. Then she rises and, lifting her skirts, runs from my room, bumping into Miss Wells, who is standing in the doorway, and appears to have been doing so for some time.

…

Miss Wells closes the door and comes to sit on the edge of my bed. I am expecting her to berate me, but she says nothing.

“I did not encourage her,” I point out.

“Oh, I know how discouraging you can be Mr Haxby,” she replies.

“What does that mean?” I demand.

“You have a way of ignoring a woman... Has it never occurred to you that the more you ignore her, the more she tries to capture your attention?”

“Do you _want_ me to encourage her?” I ask, baffled.

Miss Wells sighs. “Is she one of the girls you're teaching?”

“Yes.”

“So there you are with your handsome face and you wild hair, your snow-white, don't-touch-me linen and your long, clever words: you're North to a lodestone.” She takes the tray from my lap and dumps it on the side table. “Do you want me to have her dismissed?”

Now it is my turn to sigh. In St James's Square, as Lord Howard's Steward, I was responsible for the hiring and firing of servants, and would never have permitted a young maidservant to get away with attempting to seduce a manservant, pawing him as Fanny pawed me; I would have dismissed her on the spot, without a reference. But my role in His Grace's household is so very different from my old position, and I did all but promise Fanny that if she left my room I would say no more...

“What do you advise?” I ask Miss Wells.

“I want to roast her alive,” she says, “so my advice cannot be trusted.”

“I did not encourage her,” I repeat, lest that point be forgotten. 

When Miss Wells does not reply, I reach out to her and, to my relief, she comes to me, and settles in my arms.

“Was it what she said about children?” I ask, after a while, for it has not escaped my notice that despite having carnal relations with me almost daily for several months now, Miss Wells has shown no sign of being with child. And although I do not know what Godless steps a harlot may take to prevent conception, I am reasonably sure that Miss Wells does not take them.

“Do you want children, Mr Haxby?” she asks. “A son to make you proud?”

“Proud?”

“Isn't that how it is with fathers and sons?”

“Not in my experience, Miss Wells.” I try to avoid breaking the Fifth Commandment: “My father was often disappointed in me, and would admonish me frequently.”

“On reflection, Mr Haxby, that comes as no surprise,” she says. Then, she adds, quietly, “I can't give you children.”

I bring her hand to my lips, and kiss her fingers. “Are you sure?” I ask.

She nods.

I lie with her in my arms, trying to picture the future I would want with her...

I see myself working at my desk, in a room that looks very much like the parlour in that little parsonage at Marston Wood, with Miss Wells—Mrs Haxby—sitting nearby; I see us in the kitchen, with bunches of sweet herbs hanging from the beams overhead and Miss Wells making bread—

“Making _bread_?” says Miss Wells.

I shrug my shoulders; that is my imagining. Then I see us walking, arm-in-arm—

“Are there children with us?”

“No,” I say, and it shocks me to admit it, for I know that the purpose of marriage is procreation, and yet it seems I desire Miss Wells more than I desire to live by God's Laws.

Miss Wells kisses my hand. “It was the way she reached for your prick that angered me, Mr Haxby,” she says. “Be more careful giving your lessons in future.”

…

By the time I rise and go downstairs, dinner is being served to His Grace's guests in the Great Dining Room, and the Kitchen is running like the Newcomen engine—to use Miss Wells's favourite analogy. 

Mrs Brawne, the Cook, having a certain fondness for me, sits me down with a plate of cold cuts, since, when the rest of the servants are having their supper, I shall be assisting Miss Wells and Mr Chadwick in the Drawing Room.

News of my accident has spread through the household and some the servants are curious to hear of it: as the footmen pass by bearing platters of meat, and dishes of vegetables in fragrant sauces, several of them—men who have, in the past, been drawn into one or other of His Grace's enthusiasms—ask what it is like to be struck down by _electric virtue_.

I try to describe the feeling.

As I am talking, I notice that Fanny is watching me with reddened eyes, and that her friend, Nancy, is beside her...

“It's not right, Mr Haxby,” says Mrs Brawne. “'Tis all very well for His Grace and his friends to take risks with these things, but that's not part of a servant's job.” 

It is the closest I have come to hearing any of the household criticise His Grace.

…

To celebrate All Hallows Eve, Miss Wells has had the Drawing Room hung with garlands of plaited corn, apples, rose hips and bright red berries; my father would have condemned such decoration as heathen, but I find the effect quite pleasing...

When the night's entertainment begins, I am already waiting beside the _electrical apparatus_. 

In the dimmed light, I help Miss Wells demonstrate the _electric bells_ , the _luminous tube_ and the _aurora flask_ , whilst—much to their delight—Miss Wells teases His Grace's guests, and Mr Chadwick provides them with a commentary explaining each wonder: “It is the passage of _electric virtue_ from one body to another that causes light... By its quick transition, the _electric virtue_ may melt metals, and destroy animal and vegetable life... Our next demonstration has already proved dangerous, as Mr Haxby, here, can attest...” 

I am suddenly the focus of all eyes, something I—unlike Miss Wells and Mr Chadwick—do not enjoy; I bow, modestly.

“...and so,” the Prodigy is saying, “Miss Wells will retire to safety”—I watch her take a seat beside the odious Lord Hawton—“and Mr Haxby will assist _me_ in her stead.”

We proceed as before: I fill the spoon with spirits of wine, and Mr Chadwick warms them, then I climb upon the _electrical stool_ and brace myself to withstand the ignition of the spirits.

“Now,” says Mr Chadwick, “with this piece of _ice_...”

He pokes a long, dagger-like shard towards the spoon, the _electric virtue_ sparks, and the spirits ignite in a flash of light.

The crowd gasps, and then applauds.

And, this time, I manage to keep my footing.

  
Plate from Tiberius Cavallo's _A Complete Treatise of Electricity_ , 1777 (downloaded from the Internet Archive). Fig 10 shows the electric bells, fig 13 the luminous tube, and fig 2 the aurora flask. The original owner of the book has annotated the diagram with page numbers, showing where the experiments are described.

…

When the _scientism_ is complete, at a sign from Miss Wells, the guests are brought their coats and cloaks, and ushered out onto the terrace to watch a show of fireworks, designed by His Grace. 

As the guests stand, staring up at the sky, and voicing their delight, whilst great blooms of coloured sparks burst overhead and fall to the ground, I keep a careful eye upon Miss Wells, who is standing a little way away from the rest, and appears to be deep in conversation with the odious lord.

“You're a lucky man,” says a voice.

I turn to find Mr Chadwick beside me. 

“I saw her distress,” he says, “when she thought you were dying: Miss Wells is in love with you.” He looks me up and down, as though I were some natural phenomenon he must needs investigate, and then he shakes his head as if he finds the result impossible to comprehend.

I am as surprised that the young Prodigy believes he can interpret a woman's feelings as I am by what he has said.

“Miss Wells and I knew each other before,” I say, vaguely.

“So I have heard,” says Mr Chadwick, making it clear that, as an explanation of what he has observed, it does not meet the standards of a natural philosopher. “You are very a lucky man, Mr Haxby, as I said before, but if you _ever_ so much as...”

First Mr Monkey, and now the Prodigy! Was ever a lover threatened so?

I glance across the terrace, and swear.

“Where is she gone?” says Mr Chadwick—and, in that instant, he becomes my ally.

“We must find her,” I say, “for Lord Hawton cannot be trusted.” 

I see from his expression that Mr Chadwick is thinking only of Miss Wells's reputation, and I do not correct him, for I cannot tell him of The Spartans without breaking my word to His Grace.

“One moment,” he says and, sure enough, a moment later he is back at my side, carrying a glass jar. “This will put a stop to his Lordship's advances, if need be,” he says.

The idea is a reckless one but, as we are hurrying across the lawn in search of Miss Wells, I find myself feeling a certain respect for the Prodigy.


	16. In which Miss Wells and I visit Lewis and Lewis, solicitors.

“The maze!” I say.

Mr Chadwick swears, and I turn to him, frowning. 

“I do not like the narrowness of the paths,” he says, “nor how every wall is the same...”

I begin to wonder whether his assistance will be the benefit I thought it would be.

Nevertheless, we enter the maze and, guided by the sound of their voices, hurry along its branching paths until we are within a few yards of Miss Wells and the odious lord, and I can hear their conversation clearly; then, assured that Miss Wells is in no immediate danger, I signal Mr Chadwick to wait.

“...languishing out here in the country,” Lord Hawton is saying, “when you could be setting the Town afire—whenever, that is, you and I are not setting my bed afire.”

I hear the Prodigy gasp, and realise he knows little or nothing of Miss Wells's past—a past that _I_ , it seems, no longer find shocking.

“...then you could take me to Macall's,” Miss Wells is agreeing, “and, whilst _you_ are playing high at the tables, _I_ could be fighting off your amorous friends.”

“Why fight them?” says the odious lord. “I don't mind a friend or two playing with my property, provided it's returned undamaged.”

I feel a change in Mr Chadwick, and grasp his arm before he can rush off to challenge Lord Hawton, for I realise that Miss Wells has just baited the hook, and is about to cast.

“...and if he _should_ damage me,” she is saying, “what then?”

“What could possibly damage a harlot?” says Lord Hawton. 

At that, I consider letting Mr Chadwick loose and encouraging him to apply his _electrical jar_ to the front of His Lordship's breeches; instead, I tighten my grip.

“A pair of fists. Your friend in the leopard mask, for instance,” Miss Wells replies, reeling in her catch, “is the sort of man who must needs _beat_ a woman to get a prickstand.”

I hear the Prodigy choking on his amazement.

“Old _Rusty_? Ha!” Lord Hawton says. “I will be sure to mention _that_ next time we're at cards! Where did he damage you?”

There is a rustle of silk.

“I belong to Malmesbury,” says Miss Wells, coolly. 

I squeeze Mr Chadwick's arm, meaning, _It is time to act_ , but he has already recognised the signs. I know that a servant and a _scientific_ prodigy cannot _electrify_ a peer of the realm without suffering serious consequence, but I find myself unconcerned, and entirely focussed upon Miss Wells. Besides, I know that His Grace—

“If that's your tune, I'll return to the house,” says Lord Hawton.

Mr Chadwick and I stop dead, bumping into one another like clowns in a mummers' play. 

Then the Prodigy notices another branch of the maze, and quickly pulls me inside, and we wait, each holding his breath, until His Lordship has passed, and Miss Wells has followed him.

“The odious _worm_ ,” says the Prodigy, darkly. He turns to me. “So Miss Wells is a harlot?”

“Well, yes, she was—”

“Is she not _MAGNIFICENT_?!!” he cries, throwing up his hands. Then, after a long moment, in which I assume he is imagining certain possibilities, he adds, “But now she belongs to His Grace—and her heart, of course, is _yours_...” 

He regards me with a mixture of admiration and envy.

It is an entirely new experience for me.

…

Back in the Drawing Room, Mr Chadwick carefully sets down his _electrical jar_.

His Grace's guests have split into groups, some talking earnestly, some in high spirits; Lord Hawton is playing cards with another young fop; and Miss Wells, with all her customary wit and sparkle, is summoning refreshments and seeing to everyone's comfort. 

Lord Graham and his virtuoso, Mr Black, are anxious to engage Mr Chadwick in philosophical conversation, but the Prodigy politely asks leave to put away His Grace's _electrical apparatus_ before he joins them. I soon realise that this is a ruse, to give him the opportunity to question me.

“What was she doing?” he asks, quietly, as we lay the _luminous tube_ in its velvet-lined box.

“Doing?”

“She led him on, but only so far... And _you_ waited until she had got what she wanted... Did she pick his pocket?”

“Mr Chadwick!”

“ _I_ have no quarrel with a little thievery in a good cause,” he says.

Whilst I agree that the odious Lord Hawton does not deserve the protection of the laws of God or man, I still find the Prodigy's lax morality repugnant. “I cannot tell you what Miss Wells was doing,” I say, “for I have given my word.” Then, judging it prudent to give his curiosity at least partial satisfaction, I add, “I _will_ say that it was information she sought.”

“Old Rusty,” says Mr Chadwick. He sees my expression and shrugs. “It was the only information he gave her.”

“That is the trouble with prodigies,” I sigh. “Do not mention that name to anyone—especially not to Miss Wells.” I help him lift the _aurora flask_.

“You fear she'll punish you for letting slip her secret!” he says, grinning like an ape.

…

Later, when the guests have left and the household has retired, I go, as usual, to Miss Wells's room.

“I love your prick Mr Haxby,” she murmurs, nuzzling me down there. “Especially when it's standing so hard.”

It is something she has said befo— _ore_!

It is my firm belief that no man could have endured the work of Miss Wells's mouth a moment longer than I. But, for her, it is not enough to make me spill myself upon her: _she_ must take me by the hands and make me smooth my own seed into her bosom. And _then_ , bringing my hands to her lips and kissing them, _she_ must suck the excess from my fingers, all the while smiling up at me, lasciviously.

And, dearest God, my loins know no shame!

There are two kinds of carnal pleasure: first, there is the act intended by God for the purpose of procreation and—as I have, I will admit, only just begun to understand—to cement the bond between a man and woman; secondly, there are those acts that, causing a man's seed to spill where it should not be spilt, must be considered a heinous sin.

And yet the sinful acts are so pleasurable... 

The sheer intensity of the crisis they afford, when crisis finally comes, usually after a protracted period of what can only be described as _torture_ , is so... so _electrifying_ , and arouses such profound feelings of gratitude in the man who is enjoying it, for the woman who has caused it... 

“Dear God,” I moan. “Ah...”

I lie back, and let Miss Wells spend the rest of the night making me her plaything, though whether it gives her pleasure to do as she is doing, or whether the pleasure is merely in _mastering_ me, I cannot tell. 

…

Next morning, Miss Wells is in high spirits: she hums as, kneeling upon the floor, she adds our latest discovery—that Mr Leopard is Sir Thomas Rushton—to her diagram; she all but spins around the room whilst regaling me with her plans for further investigation. 

I, on the other hand, am enervated by carnal excess, my body weakened, my mind dwelling on things it should never have known, my spirit burdened with shame... 

I return to my own room to wash and dress, and go straight to the Library, for I need peace and quiet, and time to recover myself away from prying eyes.

…

“Mr Haxby...?”

I am working in one of the alcoves, hidden from the rest of the room, when Miss Wells comes to find me in the Library. 

I peer round the corner.

Miss Wells smiles—then her expression grows serious: “Mrs Brawne tells me you have not broken your fast,” she says.

“I... I could not face the bustle of the Servants' Hall.”

She comes to me, and takes my arm and, rising up on her tiptoes, kisses my cheek. “I will ask Mrs Brawne to pack something for you to eat on the way,” she says. “Go and put on your new suit, Mr Haxby; we're going to investigate your house—”

“My house?”

“The house you learned of from Emily Lacey.”

“Ah.”

“Poor Mr Haxby...” She kisses me again, murmuring, “I promise I will let you sleep tonight.” 

But I hear mirth in her voice.

…

The journey into the Town is most pleasant.

The weather outside is cold and blustery, the sky dark and brooding, but Miss Wells and I are quite comfortable, sitting side-by-side beneath a fur blanket...

“Here we are,” she says. 

I raise my head from her bosom; I must have fallen asleep. 

Through the window, I can see a row of elegant town houses.

“Golden Square,” says Miss Wells. 

“Your former residence,” I reply, referring to Lydia Quigley's bawdy house.

“Mm. This is as close as we can take the carriage; we must walk the rest of the way.”

I hand her down, and offer her my arm, and we make our way out of the square, turn down a side street, then turn, and turn again, and find ourselves amidst a haphazard cluster of decaying houses, euphemistically named 'Duke Street', where poverty and ruin is written on every wall, and despair in every soul. It is as though we have passed from the world of the living and stepped into Hades: that cold, grey underworld where forgotten spirits are condemned to linger aimlessly—

“Did you study Greek, Mr Haxby?” Miss Wells asks.

“At school,” I admit. “Though I was never proficient at it.”

“Still; you are lucky...”

I look down at her and see her gazing back at me with something akin to admiration in her eyes and, suddenly, I am acutely aware of her arm in mine for, whether she will admit it or no, she relies upon me for support and protection and, though it near kills me to admit it, I know she would be safer with her Irish lout—or, better yet, with her stepfather—by her side.

 _We should have brought one of the stable lads_ , I think, _armed with a stout stick_...

 _Or Mr Chadwick with his jar full of_ electric virtue.

“Calm down, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, softly.

“If anything should happen,” I say, “you must run.”

“Run?”

“I will do the best I can, but you must also make shift for yourself.”

Miss Wells pats my arm, for she does not take my fears seriously. 

“Ah,” she says, stopping before a shabby door, “here it is...” and she tries the door knob.

I had been assuming that the house would be locked up—that we would peer in at the windows, perhaps, and leave—but the door opens at Miss Wells's touch and, despite my protests, we enter.

“They were not expecting visitors,” she says.

The hallway is oak-panelled, and the wood gives off an unmistakable whiff of rot. To the left there is a closed door, leading, no doubt, to a dining room and, partially hidden, beyond the staircase, there is another door, standing slightly ajar... 

I push it open, and enter a small lobby; the back door is straight ahead and it, too, is unlocked. I step outside into a large kitchen garden, which must once have been well-tended, with beds of vegetables and herbs. It is bounded on three sides by white-washed walls, the paint now yellowed and pock-marked. The house of office stands against the far wall but, to my immediate right, opposite the steps down to the kitchen, I find what I am looking for—the tradesman's entrance, with a surprisingly sturdy wooden gate.

I grasp the big, round handle, turn it, and lift the latch. 

The gate opens soundlessly; its hinges have recently been oiled. I poke my head out into a narrow alley, and look both ways. To my left, the alleyway runs a least a hundred yards before joining a respectable-looking street, where carriages are passing by...

It is perfect! 

A Spartan need only have his coachman set him down in that street, and—cloaked and, possibly, masked—he can slip into the alley, walk up to the tradesman's entrance and, with no more than a quick glance to make sure there are no witnesses, he can enter the garden, and then the house, unseen.

I am just congratulating myself on my discovery, when I realise that Miss Wells has not followed me outside. I rush back into the house, only to hear her calling for me, but—thank God!—her tone is one of exasperation, not fear.

I find her in the dining room. It is prettily decorated—though here, too, the paint is peeling—but incongruously furnished, with nothing but a sideboard, a narrow bed, and several easy-chairs arranged around the foot of the bed, as though it were a stage...

“This is where it happens,” says Miss Wells, from behind the ring of chairs. “This is where they sit, drinking, and awaiting their turn—I'll bet they wager on each other's performance—”

“Dear God, the smell,” I say, covering my nose and mouth with my handkerchief. 

I am not referring to the usual smells—the stale, dusty air, the rotten wood, the suspicion of an unemptied chamber pot in the sideboard—nor to the rank smell of—

“ _Men_ ,” says Miss Wells, contemptuously. “Stale sweat and dried come.” 

I shake my head. “No. It is death,” I say. “Miss Lacey told me that the place smelled of death, and I wondered how she knew what death smelled like.”

“Until you smelled it for yourself.” Miss Wells sighs. “Someone has cleaned up, Mr Haxby, but they have done a poor job of it.”

That is more than enough for me: “Come,” I say, seizing her by the hand and pulling her out of the room. “Now!”

She is reluctant until she sees my face, and then she obeys me. 

But as we reach the door, she suddenly pulls at my arm. “Over there!” she says.

I see nothing, but Miss Wells bends, picks up something small, and slips it inside her glove.

…

Back in the carriage, I examine her prize; it is a gilt button, intricately worked, though I cannot quite make out the pattern cast into its surface.

“Do you think...?” says Miss Wells.

I hold the button up to the light and recognise a rampant lion. “Mm?”

“Could Howard have...?”

I turn to her, frowning.

“He was part of that set,” she says, “and foolish enough to be easily led. And he was often away...”

I take her by the hand. “ _No_ ,” I say.

“You are always loyal to him, Mr Haxby, but can you really be so sure?”

My answer requires no thought: “I can, Miss Wells,” I say, “because everything he did, he did out of his obsession with _you_. He bought your sister's maidenhead to hurt you. He forced himself upon you because he could not have your love, and your... compliance was not enough. And had he had any part in _this_ ”—I hold up the button—“he would have boasted of his crimes. To _you_.”

I see her considering what I have said, and conceding that I am right. 

“Men should be castrated at birth,” she says. Then, noticing my expression, she raises her hand, and strokes my cheek. “Not _you_ , Mr Haxby.”

“Am I not a man?”

“You're an innocent,” she replies.

I am not sure how she can say that for, only last night, I allowed her to suck my seed from me, and made plain my enjoyment of it—but Miss Wells has always insisted that I am different from the rest, and her contempt for the carnal desire of _culls_ has begun to convince me that she has never taken pleasure in being a harlot. 

…

Jackson brings the carriage to a halt beside a familiar row of arches; we have come to the chambers of Lewis and Lewis, His Grace's solicitors, for whom I used to work as a scribe.

“His Grace has asked Mr Lewis to find out who owns the house,” Miss Wells explains.

“Does it _never_ occur to you,” I ask, irritably, “that, when you bring me on one of these escapades, I might deserve to know what you intend?” 

In truth, I am finding the idea of facing my former employer, dressed in a fancy suit of silk brocade and with Miss Wells upon my arm, profoundly embarrassing.

“Your conscience is so delicate, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, as I climb from the carriage, “I never know what will trouble it—I just assume that you'll find it easier to ask God's forgiveness afterwards than to seek His permission beforehand.”

“You are a she-devil,” I say, offering to hand her down.

Miss Wells grins. 

Beneath a cloak of the darkest midnight-blue, she is wearing a gown of vivid pennyroyal, with a spotless white kerchief covering her bosom but, as she takes my hand, she leans forward, affording me a tiny glimpse of her bosom's delights, and I...

I master myself.

We cross the courtyard and, passing through the cavernous doorway, climb the stair and enter the offices of Lewis and Lewis—where the dominant smells are tobacco, polish, and the wonderful scent of old books of Law!

'Young' Mr Johnson, the ancient clerk, looks up from his desk, glances at Miss Wells, then fixes his frown on me. When I was working for his master, he made it quite plain he thought me a lackey; now, though I am here as an agent of his master's most important client and though, as a solicitor's clerk, discretion and deference run through his veins, he makes his contempt even plainer.

“Miss Wells is here to see Mr Lewis senior,” I say, firmly. “He is expecting her.”

Mr Johnson gets up from his desk, taps on the door of Mr Lewis senior's chamber, and enters. 

Miss Wells smiles broadly at me, though whether because she finds Mr Johnson's antipathy towards me comical, or whether for some other reason, I cannot say.

A moment later, Mr Johnson shows us in.

Mr Lewis senior is standing by his desk, ready to greet us, and beside him—

“Haxby!” 

Mr Lewis junior rushes forward and sweeps me into a great hug, slapping me hard on the back several times. “Good to see you, man! You are looking well.”

He is genuinely a good sort, if somewhat bluff and hearty in his manner, and it has always pained me to think that he will one day need go against his nature, and learn to dissemble, if he is to continue his father's legal practice. 

“And this,” Mr Lewis junior is saying, “must be the famous Miss Charlotte Wells!” He bows, gallantly—“Welcome, Miss Wells!”—and pulls out a chair.

Miss Wells takes her seat like a lady; I stand behind her with my hand upon the chair back.

Mr Lewis senior greets us with a more proper restraint but with, I think, no less warmth than his son. “So,” he says, “number twelve, Duke Street. George...”

Mr Lewis junior steps up to his father's desk and opens a _port folio_. 

“Difficult nut to crack,” he says, shuffling through a pile of papers, “but we got somewhere in the end.” He describes his adventures in the courts of Westminster, amongst the inhabitants of Duke Street, and at the Probate Office. “Tragedy has struck that house more than once, Miss Wells. Its last owner, a Mr Bennet—being predeceased by his wife and all of his children, poor man—left everything to a distant cousin of his, last seen boarding a ship for the Indies. Mr Bennet's executor, the late Justice Cunliffe—”

“Justice Cunliffe!” Miss Wells exclaims, turning to me.

“Yes...” says Mr Lewis junior, watching her reaction with interest. “As far as I can tell, the Justice had made no attempt to find this cousin at the time of his death.”

“So... does that mean the house belongs to no one?” asks Miss Wells.

“In fact, it belongs to the cousin, madam,” says Mr Lewis senior, “or to his heirs, but until someone finds him, it will remain empty—in limbo, you might say.”

“In limbo,” Miss Wells repeats. Then she sighs. “And so are we, Mr Haxby.”

…

Back in the carriage, Miss Wells looks at me, thoughtfully. “He likes you,” she says.

“He?”

“Mr Lewis junior.”

“Mr Lewis junior likes everybody.”

“You are so innocent, Mr Haxby,” she replies. “And”—she winks—“ _so_ handsome.” 

“Whatever the circumstances of ownership,” I say, changing the subject, “we know that The Spartans have used the house recently.”

“Yes.”

“So what we need is someone to watch it for us until they use it again.”

“We'll speak to Ma,” Miss Wells decides.

…

Margaret Wells's bawdy house is busy.

As Mr North is closing the door behind us, several young bloods come swaggering down the stair, drunk on gin and carnal pleasures. 

Lord Fallon, at the rear, stares at me.

“Weren't you George Howard's man?” he says. “What's a catch fart like you doing in a respectable cunny house”—he recognises Miss Wells—“with _Charlotte Wells_?”

“I...” 

Miss Wells steps in. “These days, my Lord,” she says, flirtatiously, “Mr Haxby is the Duke of Malmesbury's eyes and ears. I am here to visit my mother, and Mr Haxby's here to spy on me. It's a job he does _admirably_.” She pinches my cheek, as though putting me in my place.

I wince—for her fingers, like her words, hurt—then I quickly compose my face, but not before I have given Lord Fallon a glimpse of my true feelings and, as I sink into a low bow, I hear him snort.

“I do believe the fellow thought he had a chance with her!” he says.

His foolish friends bray like donkeys.

“Every man, my Lord,” I say, keeping my eyes lowered, “hopes to find favour with a woman like Miss Wells, though such bliss is only for the chosen few.”

The Donkey King grunts.

Then he turns his back on me, and I am quite forgotten as he gives Mr North a curt nod, meaning, _Open the door, man_ , and follows his friends outside. 

Miss Wells, meanwhile, has taken me by the hand...

…

She pulls me into an empty room and, closing the door, pushes me down on the bed. 

Her smile is wicked.

“Mmmmmm,” she says, opening my breeches and grasping my member, which—if I may boast—is already eager for her. Her kisses are hard and passionate, and when, at last, she sinks down upon me, she makes that sound that comes from deep within her, like a mixture of pleasure, pain and greed.

Our congress is ferocious—first one on top, then the other—and Miss Wells claws at my body like a tygress—

“Oh, dear God,” I gasp, struggling to sit up, “the _button_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent ages researching Mr Lewis junior's paragraph about tracing the owner of the house, and I still don't really know if what he says is plausible. There was no Land Registry in Britain until the middle of the 19th century, though some areas, including London, did keep some kind of record. So I thought his best bet would be to question the locals, find the name of the last owner, and go hunting for a will...
> 
>  _Catch fart_ was—apparently—Regency slang for a footman, but I thought it sort of fitted Haxby, given his chamber pot experience with Lord Howard!
> 
> When I'm writing a scene, I always try to visualise Haxby with one of the expressions he shows us in the series, and I just love the one in the picture above ;-)


	17. In which Miss Wells and I—I most reluctantly—visit Nancy Birch.

“No!” cries Miss Wells, and pushes me down on the bed.

I look up at her, moving upon me with her back arched and her head thrown back, and I know I should be revolted, and yet...

And yet what I see—besides a beautiful woman taking carnal pleasure of my body—or sense, rather, is an invisible _boundary_ that surrounds us, binding us together and excluding all others, and which has done so since we two first became one flesh. 

She is mine, and I am hers.

I grasp her waist and hold her as her agitations peak and bring on her crisis; then, when the tumult has subsided and she is sagging in my hands, I turn her and lay her down upon the bed and, holding myself in check till she bids me go harder, I seek my own pleasure.

And when, at last, I sink down upon her, I feel her gather me in her arms, and press kisses upon my temple.

…

“What were you saying, at entirely the wrong moment, Mr Haxby,” Miss Wells asks, some time later, “mmmm?” She is stroking my hair.

“I think the button belongs to Lord Fallon,” I say.

I feel her body, which until then had been marvellously languid, stiffen. “Why?”

“Because, whilst he was busy putting me in my place, my eyes were fixed upon his waistcoat,” I say. “And there I saw rampant lions.”

…

Margaret Wells is not pleased to entertain me in her parlour, especially since Miss Wells is being most affectionate towards me, sitting upon my lap and toying with my hair. I catch her hand and hold it against my chest, softening the implied rebuke with a smile, but Miss Wells, smiling back, leans in and kisses me, lingeringly, for she is incorrigible.

Then, “Ma, why did you never take Lord Fallon's offer for Lucy,” she asks, adding, for my benefit: “Fallon wanted to be Lucy's keeper, Mr Haxby.”

“Good God,” I say.

Margaret Wells frowns at me before answering, cautiously, “Because he frightened her...”

Miss Wells is suddenly alert: “How?”

Margaret Wells is another harlot who is quickness itself, and she immediately understands our interest in His Lordship. “Something about him feeding his seed to her; you'll have to ask her yourself—Kitty,” she calls to one of the girls, “tell Lucy to come here.”

“What do you know of Sir Thomas Rushton, Ma?” asks Miss Wells, whilst we are waiting for Miss Lucy. She rises from my lap and crosses to the sideboard, silently offering me a glass of brandy; I shake my head.

“I think Nancy's had dealings with him,” says Margaret Wells.

“Strange,” says Miss Wells, pouring herself a large measure. “I wouldn't have thought he'd enjoy the birch.”

…

Miss Lucy Wells is no longer the child I once saw Lord Howard attempt to seduce; life has given her an experience beyond her years, which shows in her eyes, though her beauty otherwise remains as fresh as ever. Sitting side-by-side, she and Miss Wells are like two roses: one white, and one a deep, velvet-red. 

I take Miss Wells's hand.

“Did you see Lord Fallon today, sprat?” Miss Wells asks.

“No,” says Miss Lucy. “Ma told him I had my monthly courses.”

“He went with Marie-Louise instead,” says Margaret Wells, “but he wasn't happy about it—Charlotte wants to hear how he scared you, Lucy,” she adds.

Miss Lucy bites her lip. “Well... He brought this fruit,” she says, at last; “'rare and delicate', he called it, and he cut it open and fed the seeds to me, like this...” She puts her fingers in her mouth, pushing them in deep, with a sensuality that—God forgive me—reminds me of putting my own member into Miss Wells's mouth.

“He said,” Miss Lucy adds, “'These seeds seal your fate; now you're mine.'”

“Persephone,” I say.

Miss Lucy looks at me for the first time. “That's what he called me,” she says, nodding. “A goddess.”

“Isn't she the one who was dragged down into the underworld?” says Miss Wells.

“By Hades, its king,” I say. “He wanted to make her his queen.”

“Sounds like Howard,” Miss Wells replies, adding, under her breath: “it's just a fancy way of saying he raped her.”

I squeeze her hand. 

“What's it got to do with fruit?” says Margaret Wells.

“Hades agreed to send Persephone back to her mother,” I say, “provided she hadn't eaten anything in the underworld, but she had eaten six pomegranate seeds—”

“ _Ma?!_ ” cries Miss Lucy.

Margaret Wells crosses to the sofa, and gathers her younger daughter in her arms. “We never signed the contract,” she says, in the gentlest of voices. 

“When I tried to get away from him, Ma, he fell over,” Miss Lucy says, clearly terrified by Fallon. “But he just _laughed_.”

“I have remembered something else,” I say, “from Homer: as queen of the underworld, it was one of Persephone's duties to inflict the curses of the living upon the souls of the dead.”

“To torture them?” says Miss Wells.

I nod, and see the look of horror that passes between Miss Wells and her mother as it occurs to them what that might mean for Miss Lucy.

“Don't let that man anywhere near her, Ma,” says Miss Wells.

…

After Margaret Wells has calmed Miss Lucy, and put her in Miss Kitty's capable hands, Miss Wells gives her mother and father a brief account of what she and I discovered in Duke Street, and asks if they know of any reliable person, willing to hide in the house of office and watch for signs that the Spartans are preparing to meet.

“That's a dangerous job,” says Mr North, the voice of reason, and I have to admit that, though it were my idea, I agree with him.

“Prince Rasselas,” says Margaret Wells, “the molly; he's got the trick of watching from the shadows then disappearing like smoke. Nancy reckons he's a regular informant—she can probably tell you where to find him.”

“Thanks, Ma,” says Miss Wells, rising from the sofa and taking her leave, squeezing her mother's hands, and—I notice—kissing her stepfather's cheek. 

“Just a minute,” says Margaret Wells, blocking my way when I try to follow her daughter, “my rooms don't come free.” She holds out her hand for payment.

I look, over her shoulder, to Miss Wells. 

“Pay her, Mr Haxby,” Miss Wells says, favouring me with a bewitchingly impudent smile.

I take out my coin pouch. “How much?”

“A guinea,” says Margaret Wells.

It is an outrageous sum—and it was not _I_ who appropriated the room—but I find sufficient coins and drop them in her palm.

“You ever had to pay for it with Charlotte before, Mr Haxby?” asks the fair, innocent-faced girl, whose name, I believe, is Betsey.

“ _No_ ,” I say.

Miss Wells and I depart to a chorus of raucous laughter.

…

His Grace's carriage sets us down near Russell Street, and we are again forced to make our way on foot through that filthy labyrinth of tenements, taverns and bawdy houses but, this time, Miss Wells takes my arm, and we navigate the piles of muck and puddles together. Despite the disgusting sights and smells, I find my spirits high, and my most pressing feeling is one of pride: pride that Miss Charlotte Wells is on my arm, pride in my own ability to give her pleasure.

“Over here,” says Miss Wells, drawing me towards yet another shabby house. 

I knock.

The creature who opens the door is built from a curiously mismatched collection of parts: a cocked hat, set over a sharp face partially hidden by a black lace mask, which only serves to draw attention to its two hard eyes; a bosom tightly laced in satin stays; black breeches, and a long, grey top coat. The whole resembles a she-highwayman whose chosen weapon is the birch, and whose disturbing... _leatheriness_ speaks of self-reliance, and an almost masculine authority.

I do not hesitate to admit that Mistress Nancy Birch terrifies me, and not so much for what she is, as for the way she shows me what Miss Charlotte Wells might have become.

“Charlotte!” she says, giving Miss Wells a friendly hug before stepping aside to allow us to enter. The front room of her house is arranged like an ale house, with stained table, sturdy chairs, and a selection of barrels and bottles on the sideboard.

“Is this His Grace?” she asks.

“No,” says Miss Wells, “this is Mr Haxby, Malmesbury's—”

“Proxy,” I say.

Those hard eyes stare at me, and I feel myself begin to wilt.

“Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, “does the things His Grace cannot.”

Nancy Birch sniffs. “Nice work if you can get it,” she says and, releasing me, not a moment too soon, from her penetrating gaze, she indicates that we should both take a seat.

Without asking whether we want refreshment, she draws three tankards of ale from one of the barrels, sets them down on the table, and joins us.

“What can I do for you?” she asks.

Miss Wells takes a sip of ale. “Ma says you've serviced Sir Thomas Rushton,” she says.

“Old Rusty Rushton,” says Nancy Birch. “Mmm”—she takes a long draught—“he did lower himself to come 'ere once, thinking I'd give him what a more respectable bawd would refuse.”

“Which was?” I ask.

“Girls to beat,” says Nancy Birch, looking into her tankard. “With fists, I'd wager.”

Miss Wells and I exchange glances. “What did you do?” I ask.

“Sent him away with a flea in his ear, and a few cuts across his back.”

Having suffered a horsewhipping myself, I know how painful and humiliating it is to be beaten—how the victim instinctively raises his arms to protect himself, which, in my experience, only serves to increase his misery, especially if the blows connect with his hands...

“Did he not retaliate?” I ask.

Nancy Birch shakes her head. “Went; meek as a lamb.”

“But later,” I say, “did he not come back and harry you?”

“No...” Nancy Birch looks from me to Miss Wells and back again. “What's this about?” she asks.

“Sir Thomas Rushton caught me eavesdropping,” Miss Wells explains, “at Lord Hawton's masked ball, and grabbed me. Mr Haxby saved me—”

“Must have a lot more spunk in 'im than meets the eye,” says Nancy Birch.

“He does,” says Miss Wells—then she grins mischievously and the two women suddenly cackle like geese whilst I colour painfully.

“Good for you,” says Nancy Birch, punching my arm.

“I am concerned,” I admit, disturbed by her familiarity and trying to get the conversation back on course, “that Sir Thomas may attempt to harm Miss Wells, but she refuses to stay within the safety of Mereworth House, and I cannot be with her all the time—and nor could I hope to protect her from his men.”

Nancy Birch purses her lips, thoughtfully. “Is this about the murdered girls?” she asks.

Miss Wells recounts what we have so far discovered of the Spartans.

Nancy Birch leans back in her chair. “You know what _I_ think, hm? I think Fallon, Hawton, even Rushton—they're small beer. Yes, they're born to lording it over the rest of us, and they've gone so far as to commit murder, but they're not clever; they give orders, they don't do the job. Killing Justice Cunliffe and slithering off into the gutter takes animal cunning, but finding a supply of girls who can't be traced, and getting rid of their bodies afterwards—that kind of work's beneath the Sirs and the Lordships. ”

“You mean”—I find myself swallowing bile—“the Spartans need a man of business?” I realise it makes sense, and I wonder why the idea had never occurred to _me_ , but something about it does not feel quite right: “He would have to be a man of considerable authority...”

Nancy Birch shrugs.

“Perhaps Fallon's steward,” Miss Wells offers.

“No,” I say, “his master would have to be—” 

But I do not voice the rest of that frightening thought, because our conversation is interrupted by a muffled cry from elsewhere in the house. Nancy Birch seizes her namesake and, rising from the table, stalks into the back rooms.

Foolishly, and despite Miss Wells's warning hand, I let my eyes follow her, and I watch as—growling, “Shut up, filth,” in that rough voice of hers—she raises the birch, and I am afforded a glimpse of something that may, I believe, remain lodged in my _optick_ nerves for the rest of my life

…

“It gives them pleasure, if that's what has you so discomfited,” says Miss Wells, as we walk the streets in search of the sorry specimen they call Prince Rasselas. “They say that if you beat a man with sufficient skill, he'll come, and keep coming for hours.”

“Hours?”

“Well, a long time.”

“Hanging from a hook in Nancy Birch's back room? I would rather have a few _moments_ of pleasure with you in our bed.”

Miss Wells pats my arm. “You've come a long way, Mr Haxby,” she says. “There was a time when you'd have said you'd rather pray.”

I cannot but smile at her impudence, though I try to hide it from her.

“It is not the birching,” I say. “It seems I am no longer much troubled by the carnal desires of others, if those desires do not encompass murder.”

“Are you wondering what you would have done had Howard ordered you to find him girls?” she asks, more seriously. “Wondering if humanity would have trumped loyalty? Wondering whether you would have refused? Or even gone to the authorities?”

“No...” I say, though I must admit that all of those questions have occurred to me. “Are _you_ wondering about those things?”

“I think I understand you better as a result,” she replies, though what she means by it, I do not know.

But the fact is, neither of Miss Wells's speculations is correct; the fact is, since we left Nancy Birch, I have simply been thinking that, if harlots were to put their mind to it, they could rule the world quite comfortably, and we men would—

“Be kept for breeding,” says Miss Wells. “Or for giving pleasure.”

She casts me a sidelong glance. “And now you're wondering,” she adds, “whether _you_ would be a breeder or a lover,” and she laughs in her old, bawdy fashion.

Visiting the Town always brings out the worst in her.

“I imagine,” I say, “that _I_ would be a little drudge.”

“Mr Haxby?”

“That was your stated opinion of me.”

“ _When?_ ”

“It does not matter.”

“And yet it still hurts you, after all this time,” she says, taking my hand and lacing her fingers with mine. “You're such a sensitive man, Mr Haxby, and I—oh, this is it!” She stops beside a flight of filthy steps leading down to a door that might once have been painted black. 

But before we descend, she squeezes my hand, and whispers, “I would have you as a lover, Mr Haxby.

“ _And_ I'd expect you to keep my accounts for me, of course.”

…

“Let _me_ talk to him,” says Miss Wells, as she raises her hand to knock.

I agree.

There is no answer to her first knock, but her second elicits a groan. The door is already slightly ajar; Miss Wells pushes it open, and we enter. The room is dark and bare, save for a narrow bed, a small table piled with empty bottles, a wooden chest, and a couple of stools. 

Lying on the bed, a young man is writhing in feverish agony.

“Dear God,” I say, for I recognise the ravages of the French pox, the disease that took the life of Mary Cooper. “Is that...”

“No, it is not Prince Rasselas,” says Miss Wells, sitting down beside the dying man and gently taking his hand. “Would you fetch some water, Mr Haxby?”

I seize a jug and, after some exploring, find my way to the back yard, and the water pump. When I return, Miss Wells has managed to calm the young man a little, though he is clearly in great pain. I find a bowl and fill it with water, and set it down beside her; she soaks a rag, and sponges his forehead.

She is a kind woman.

“Who is he?” I ask.

Miss Wells shrugs. “Some friend of Prince Rasselas—or loved one, perhaps. Will you go to the apothecary, Mr Haxby, and get some laudanum?” She fumbles in her pocket, but I wave my hand. 

“I have coin enough,” I tell her.

…

It takes me some minutes to find an apothecary's shop in that warren of filth and vice. I open the door, and the bell brings a small, weasel of a man scurrying out from some inner sanctum, wiping his stained hands upon a canvas apron. 

I ask for laudanum, and wait until he is occupied before also asking whether it is true, as I have heard, that treatment with mercury may cure the French pox.

“Ah, mercury,” he says, with a sickly smile. “The modern method is suffumigation, sir: the inhaling of and bathing in mercuric fumes. A mercurial purge may work if the problem lies in the back passage; if it is in front”—he gestures to make the point clear—“you may rub a mercury inunction vigorously into the ulcerated part and lie near a hot fire. The aim is to void the syphilitic poisons, sir, by salivation and sweating.”

I have a strong suspicion that he believes I enquire for myself.

“Might a man recover without treatment?” I ask.

“For a time, he might rally...”

“The young man in question is frail,” I say. “I do not believe he would survive a rigorous regime. I will just take laudanum; enough for a month.”

…

Miss Wells is preparing the drops, and I, at her request, am praying with the young man, when Prince Rasselas returns.

“Who are _you_? What are you—oh, Miss Charlotte,” he exclaims. “What are _you_ doing here?” He turns to me and his face darkens: “What's _he_ up to?”

“We came to find you, and found your friend,” says Miss Wells, calmly.

“Finn,” says the wretched boy. “His name's Finn.”

“Mr Haxby's brought Finn some laudanum.”

“Why's he praying?”

“Because _I_ thought,” says Miss Wells, “that it might give Finn comfort.” She holds out the glass in which she's mixed the laudanum with wine. “ _You_ should give him this.”

The boy hesitates, then takes the glass from her and, perching on the edge of the bed and talking softly, he lifts his friend's head and offers it to his lips, quietly encouraging him to swallow the medicine.

It is, I will admit, an affecting sight, though I know that their union is sinful. Miss Wells moves one of the stools and, sitting down beside me, takes my hand with a sad smile.

“Why've you come here?” asks Prince Rasselas, when his friend has settled.

“We have work for you,” says Miss Wells. “It is dangerous work, but we'll pay you well.”

“The fee,” says the boy, “is a doctor, and any treatment Finn needs.”

“Hear what we want of you first,” I reply for, having spoken with the apothecary, I suspect that his demands are pointless.

Prince Rasselas turns his dark eyes upon me and, for the second time today, I feel myself being weighed in the balance, and found contemptible.

Nevertheless, I tell him about the house in Duke Street and what goes on there; I tell him about the alleyway, the wooden gate with its well-oiled latch, and the arrangement of the garden with its house of office. “We need someone to keep a watch on the house,” I say, “and, if there is activity of any kind, to send a message. But make no mistake,” I add, “these men are ruthless. If they discover the look-out, there is no doubt they will kill him.” I feel Miss Wells's hand in mine.

“These men,” says Prince Rasselas, “meant to murder my friend, Amelia. I will do it, but I want the first payment in advance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter has been sitting on my computer since November, but I've only just had the chance to finish it. The next chapter will be Christmassy ;-)
> 
>  _Spunk_ is a bit anachronistic—it isn't attested in the sense Nancy uses it ('courage, pluck, mettle') until 1773, and not in the sense Charlotte uses it ('semen') until 1888, but what better word?


	18. In which I ask Miss Wells an important question.

“You are thoughtful,” I say, for Miss Wells has been silent most of the journey.

She raises her head, and looks at me. “I was thinking,” she says, “how, from childhood, you and I have been stifling our natural selves, Mr Haxby—you, taught to accept your master's word as law, I to accept his prick, and both to fulfil his every whim, and pretend that we like it.”

I cannot say that _I_ like where this conversation seems to be going, but Miss Wells mollifies me by crossing the carriage and, sitting down beside me, drawing me close, until my head is resting upon her shoulder. 

“I used to hate your servility, Mr Haxby; hate the way you flaunted it before me”—I feel her fingers, stroking my hair—“like a virtue. Because I never understood what it was costing you. Until now.” Gently, she lifts my chin, and kisses me on the lips; it is a tender kiss, and I return it... 

Then, “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I tell her.

“I'm talking,” she says, “about the Spartans. If Howard had asked you—”

“He did not, Miss Wells.”

“I know he did not, Mr Haxby. But if he _had_ asked you to find him a virgin,” she insists, “well, a servant must obey his master—the master is the man, the servant merely his 'hand'. And the world,” she adds, with a sudden rush of bitterness, “pretends that the master, being high-born, has a natural nobility, and the servant, being low-born, needs his _guidance_...”

We share a moment of deep understanding, for we both have reason to know how far the world errs.

“Thank God for such men as Malmesbury,” she says.

“Lord Howard,” I reply, “was a fool. No Spartan worth his salt would have entrusted him with a secret.”

“You evade the fundamental question, Mr Haxby.”

“I would have had no choice, Miss Wells,” I admit, at last—and then I remember Lord Howard's behaviour towards Miss Lucy—a harlot born, and yet no more than a child—and I make up my mind. “But I swear, had I learned the girl had been raped and murdered, I would have done my duty by her, and informed a magistrate.”

It is a difficult confession, and one that must, I think, fall far short of what she had been hoping for—

I am surprised when she squeezes my hand.

“There is still a half hour before we reach Mereworth, Mr Haxby,” she says. 

Then she slides down from the carriage seat, and kneels between my legs.

…

I spend the evening in the Library, with my mind in a state of such disorder, it is hard to work.

There is, of course, the lingering physical pleasure of Miss Wells's recent attentions—though tempered, as always, by the guilt I suffer whenever Miss Wells has played the harlot for me—and then there is _elation_ , knowing that Miss Wells trusts me, and has shown it in the most intimate way—the way most characteristic of herself—

The Library door opens, and three of my pupils—Esther, Fanny, and Nancy—enter, and we begin the lesson, and even Fanny's reproachful looks and sullen replies cannot darken my mood.

…

The next few weeks are filled with preparations for Christmas, for His Grace has given Miss Wells the managing of it and, since she has always had a preference for excess, there is much to be arranged.

First, there are the flocks of geese and herds of beef, the whole groves of lemons and oranges, the bushels of currants and raisins, and the sacks of cinnamon and nutmeg to be purchased, and when Miss Wells asks my opinion of certain prices that Mr Taylor, the Butler, has obtained, there is a storm it takes all of Miss Wells's considerable charms to assuage—for it is well-known that, in my former life, I was Lord Howard's man of business, and Mr Taylor is particularly sensitive to any threat of my 'meddling' in _his_ business.

Then, there is a deal of Christmas baking to be supervised, since it is His Grace's custom to provide a basket, filled with Christmas pies and other choice foods, to every one of his tenant families, and Miss Wells is sufficiently familiar with poverty to be determined that no one (especially Mr Taylor) should be permitted to deprive the tenants of one jot of their festive fare.

It is a battle.

And then there is Christmas Day itself to plan, for His Grace's nephew and heir will be making his annual pilgrimage to Mereworth; and there is Twelfth Night, when His Grace will be entertaining his philosophical friends...

And, throughout it all, there are doorways, mantelpieces and stairwells to be decorated, for no nook nor cranny must be left bare of greenery, until Mereworth House looks as though His Grace's botanical specimens had all burst out of the Orangerie and made a pagan temple of it.

…

“Are you acquainted with His Grace's nephew?” I ask Miss Wells.

“Dear _god_ , Mr Haxby!” she cries.

I am surprised by her exclamation, and turn to look at her. She is lying beside me, in that unkempt state that follows vigorous carnal congress—her face flushed, her hair in disarray, her shift pushed up, exposing her lovely limbs—for, lately, the strain of her added responsibilities has been making her particularly tygerish.

(And _I_ , strange to say, have been finding the extra exertions required of me quite exhilarating).

“You choose the _worst_ moments to ask your stupid questions,” she complains.

I do not apologise, for I was only—

“Being your usual considerate self,” she says, but I believe she is being ironic. “ _Yes_ , Mr Haxby, I _am_ acquainted with Sir Roderick.”

Her exasperation gives me pause—could Miss Wells's recent anxiety be on account of Sir Roderick's visit? Does it remind her that, when His Grace is taken from us, and Sir Roderick is master of Mereworth, _she_ will likely be turned out—

“Oh, Roderick will ruin me long before that, Mr Haxby, if he gets his way,” says Miss Wells, turning to face me. 

I take her in my arms, for I have found that, when I am unsure of her mood, an embrace is generally the wisest course, but she refuses to say anything more, except that, “When it comes to his nephew, Malmesbury is blind to any fault...

“Read to me, Mr Haxby,” she says, after a while.

I kiss her forehead, and reach for my Bible, which is often, these days, to be found lying beside her bed.

“Not St Paul,” she says; “not that old woman-hater. Read of Jesus saying that no one must cast the first stone.”

I turn to John, chapter eight.

…

It is a shameful thing to admit that Miss Wells's sudden, unexpected piety arouses my desire—though, in my defence, it is a desire that wants only to comfort her, and Miss Wells's warm hand _is_ resting upon my belly, mere inches from my member, which straightway—

But I say too much.

Afterwards, when she is sleeping in my arms, and I am asking God for His forgiveness, I seem to hear His voice, reminding me that it is _my_ duty to protect Miss Wells...

Though how I will do so, He does not say.

…

The next day, having decided upon a course of action, I obtain His Grace's permission to make a trip into the Town to visit the offices of Lewis and Lewis and discuss my intentions with Mr Lewis junior, who listens to my proposal with all of his customary good humour, and gives me some excellent advice.

Next, I go to Sloane's, on Pickadilly, where I spend some time selecting a gift.

And then, since I am in the Town, I decide to call upon Prince Rasselas, to ask if there is any news of Duke Street.

The door opens at my knock but, instead of a youth in Turkish dress, I am greeted by a pleasant young woman, clothed in black, who introduces herself as Prince Rasselas's friend. She tells me that Prince Rasselas is presently out on business, and invites me inside.

The room is as shabby as ever, but the fire roaring in the grate, and the array of glasses, jugs and medicines beside the bed, all testify to the young man's care for his sick friend.

The boy, however, still tosses and turns, drenched in sweat and muttering in his delirium.

“Has there been _any_ improvement?” I ask.

The young woman draws me away from the bedside. “I do not believe so, sir,” she says, in her soft, grave voice, “though we pray for him, and remain hopeful.”

…

By the time I reach the coach, it is dark. I climb up beside Jackson and tell him to take me to Golden Square.

“How do you pass the time,” I ask, “when you are waiting for your charges?”

“Oh, there's enough to keep me busy, Mr Haxby,” he replies, gathering up the reins. “Seeing to the horses, checking the harness, lighting the coach lamps— _Walk!_ ” By some miracle, the horses hear his command and obey. “And the other coachmen are friendly, most of them. Besides”—he smiles at me—“I enjoy just sitting and watching my betters.”

He falls silent as he guides us through the streets to our destination.

“Golden Square,” he announces.

“Jackson,” I say, before climbing down from the carriage, “if, whilst you are waiting, you should ever see or hear anything of Lord Fallon, Lord Hawton, or Sir Thomas Rushton—he is the man in the leopard mask who threatened Miss Wells at Wood Hill—I need you to tell me.”

The coachman accepts this commission with a salute—a soldier acknowledging his orders. 

He is an admirable fellow.

…

Golden Square is bustling in the glow of its door lamps. Men of all stations, some arriving by carriage, some on foot, are eager to satisfy their lust. As I hurry to the alley I discovered on my visit to Duke Street, I glance discreetly at each young blood who passes me by, but I do not spot any of my quarry. 

The alley is not lit, but I quickly feel my way to the gate, and enter the Spartans' lair. The house stands directly before me, dark and empty-looking. I turn to the right and, keeping one hand upon the garden wall, I follow the path to the house of office, announcing softly, as I approach, “It is Thomas Haxby.”

The building is divided in two—one side for servants and the other for people of quality—though I would wager my right arm that no Spartan ever eased himself in there. Prince Rasselas is enstalled on the servants' side, with a board laid across the privy to form a seat, and a small hole bored in the door so that he can look out into the garden without being seen.

“Any news?” I ask, joining him in the confined space.

“Other than the man with the lantern I've written to Miss Charlotte about, no; there's been nothing.” He offers to move over and let me sit beside him, but I shake my head.

“We can only hope,” I say, “that Miss Wells and I, when we explored the house, did not leave any sign to alert them—ah!”

Prince Rasselas has grabbed my arm; I freeze, holding my breath as he bends to peer through the spyhole.

After a moment, he rises. “ _Look_ ,” he whispers.

I contort myself, and put an eye to the spyhole.

There is someone in the garden!

He is standing by the gate, holding a lantern, and it is hard to describe the horror he strikes in me.

Perhaps it is just a trick of the light, for his lantern leaves the lower part of his form in darkness, so that it seems insubstantial, as though his head and shoulders were an emanation of the very shadows; perhaps it is his strange, featureless face—wrapped, I realise later, in a neckerchief; most likely, it is the knowledge that this monster has played a part in the death of Maria Elton, and in that of an unknown number of young women like her.

The Monster raises his lantern to survey the house—

Suddenly, he turns and looks right at me, meeting my gaze as though the wooden door between us did not exist.

I reel away, biting back a cry of surprise, and only Prince Rasselas's body prevents me from landing upon the privy with a thud. The young man clamps one hand over my mouth and the other around my chest, and I am pressed against the door, like... like a man-harlot, trembling as I listen to the Monster's footsteps, coming closer and closer...

I feel Prince Rasselas's hand move, and realise that he has drawn a pistol, and is ready to shoot.

_Oh, dear God, I was not made for this!_

There is a long, unbearable silence—I am tormented by the wood, rough against my cheek; the sweat, running down my back (though the night is cold); the smells, of—

I almost laugh aloud at the sound of urination, coming from the privy next door; behind me, I feel Prince Rasselas, shaking with mirth.

The Monster utters a grunt of satisfaction, and then— _Thank God!_ —I hear him walk away.

Prince Rasselas bends around me, and looks through the spyhole.

“He's gone,” he says, softly. “Oh, for a moment, Mr Haxby, I thought you were going to piss yourself as well!”

I open my mouth to chastise him, but he is not so far from the truth. Instead, I ask, “Is it safe to leave?”

“Yes,” he replies, sitting down on his makeshift seat and carefully laying his pistol beside him. “He'll not be back tonight.”

“Does he come often?”

“Every two or three days.”

“To make sure all is well,” I suggest.

“Mm.”

“It can only be a matter of time before they use the house again,” I say. “Keep watching.”

Then, more gently, as I am leaving, I add, “I will pray for your friend.”

…

“Where have you been all day?” Miss Wells demands, the moment I enter her bedroom.

“I had some business in the Town,” I reply, “with Mr Lewis junior, and then I—”

“ _Business?_ ” Miss Wells shuts the door. “What business?”

“From when I was employed by him,” I say, vaguely; it is not a complete untruth.

“I thought you were finished with all that.”

I smile, for her peevishness tells me that she has missed me.

I let her take me to bed.

And, afterwards, I tell her about the man with the lantern, though I am careful to keep certain unflattering details to myself.

…

On the eve of Christmas, Miss Wells and I, together with the curate of Mereton, Mr Billings, travel the length and breadth of His Grace's estate, delivering his Christmas bounty to his tenants. 

Mr Billings is a popular young man, with a reputation both for piety and compassion, and many of the tenants already know Miss Wells, and most are happy to see her, though some—chiefly, I note, of the older and more prosperous type—receive her more coolly. _I_ am content to remain in the background, carrying the baskets and handing them to Miss Wells at the proper time, and all is going very well, until, in one small cottage, in the midst of some domestic emergency, there is a bustle, and I find myself holding a baby.

The creature is about eighteen inches long and closely wrapped in cloths, so that all that can be seen of it is a wrinkled face and two little fists, jogging up and down, but I immediately find myself struck by the exquisite formation of its tiny hands...

“It is waving to me,” I say, to no one in particular.

“Put the knuckle of your little finger to her lips, sir,” says its mother, “and she will suck.”

I do as I am bid, and it—the child— _she_ —does, indeed, suck, closing her big, fathomless eyes... 

I look up to see Miss Wells watching me.

“You are lucky she has not smiled at you, Mr Haxby,” she says, “or your heart might be lost.”

I give the baby back to her mother and, as we are leaving, I take out my coin pouch and set a guinea on the table. “For the child,” I say.

Miss Wells is still watching me as we drive home through the gathering mist. “Babies are Nature's harlots, Mr Haxby,” she says, enigmatically.

…

Later the same day, the entire household assembles behind His Grace, in the cold, damp, evening air, to greet Sir Roderick as he arrives to celebrate Christmas.

I have made a careful study of the young man's portrait, which hangs near the fireplace in the Morning Room, but now I see that the artist must have thought his fee dependent upon flattery, for whereas the picture shows a slight but noble-looking young man, the youth who climbs down from the carriage and greets his uncle has something _furtive_ about him. He is dressed not unlike myself, in a sober black suit, and he wears a plainish, dark wig, but the look of scorn I see flit across his face as he turns from His Grace, and of voluptuousness as he greets Miss Wells, give the lie to his apparent humility; the man _dissembles_.

(And who should recognise that better than I, who am expert at hiding his true feelings for Miss Wells, save when she invites me to show them?) 

I have been a fool, for what is clear to me now is that Sir Roderick lusts after Miss Wells, and that the ruin she spoke of was a falling out with His Grace, since violation at the hands of his nephew is the one circumstance in which His Grace might choose to believe another's word over hers. 

My plan to protect her has mistaken its target: it may secure her future, but it will do nothing to avert the immediate danger she faces.

What am I to do?

His Grace leads his nephew between the lines of servants, introducing him to Mr Chadwick, whose reputation seems to have preceded him, and then to me, who am clearly beneath the Dissembler's regard.

“I shall be feeling those clammy fingers for a fortnight,” the Prodigy mutters, wiping his hand on the skirts of his coat as we wait to follow the others back inside.

“Miss Wells fears him,” I say.

“That milksop?!” he exclaims. “Why would she—oh, a wolf in sheep's clothing, eh? Surely he would not dare...?”

“We must watch him,” I say. “If you and I are constantly at his heels, he can do her no harm.” 

I look at the Dissembler. He seems genuinely impressed to have met His Grace's virtuoso... 

“You must stay by his side, Mr Chadwick,” I decide, “and bewitch him with your talk of airs and _electricism_ ; I will keep close to Miss Wells.”

The Prodigy regards me thoughtfully. “You're a bit of a wolf in sheep's clothing yourself, Mr Haxby,” he says.

…

I join the company—consisting of His Grace, Lord Robey (His Grace's greatest friend), Lord Graham, Lady Aphra Leigh (the wonder of _mathematicks_ ), Sir Roderick, Mr Spencer, Mr Black, Mr Chadwick, and Miss Wells—for dinner, and for the philosophical entertainments afterwards, as a sort of minor virtuoso with a passable knowledge of ancient books and learning, and to even out the numbers.

My tastes do not tend to the opulent, but even _I_ cannot but marvel at the transformation of the Great Dining Room, with its garlands of evergreens curling around the pillars, draping the mantelpieces, and spilling from the vases, and at the pleasing effect of the green foliage arranged against the deep red damask of the walls. 

The table is covered with snow-white linen, and set with an exquisite gold-enamelled service, with silver tableware, and crystal goblets, which seem to gleam with more than their usual lustre. 

And the food...

The food is fit for an Emperor of Rome!

I am not a great eater, but I savour the _Soup à la Flamond_ , the fish, the venison; the lamb's feet with asparagus and peas; the rabbit _à la Portugueze_ ; the _blanquet_ of veal and mushrooms; the _timball_ of macaroni; the _volevent_ with white collops... And then the jellies, the wafers, and the fruit! 

Miss Wells and Mrs Brawne have truly outdone themselves.

The guests share an enthusiasm for discussion, and all would be very merry, were it not for Sir Roderick, who behaves in the most priggish of ways, finding the food too rich and the wine too strong (on account of his weak stomach—though that does not, I note, prevent his eating and drinking them), holding forth on the evils of gambling (when Lady Aphra is famed for her study of the _mathematicks_ of it), and on the natural inferiority of the female (when Lady Aphra's fame and Miss Wells's wit give the lie to everything he says), and throughout exuding such a Puritanical air that, little by little, the rest of the company grows depressed by it, and Miss Wells must exert herself to the utmost to keep their spirits raised.

…

Tonight, I take extra care that no one should see me entering Miss Wells's room. I have His Grace's blessing, but if Sir Roderick were to know of it, the scandal would likely destroy everything that Miss Wells and I have unexpectedly been granted.

Miss Wells admits me immediately—I believe she has been waiting by the door for me—and pulls me quickly inside, but her celerity has nothing to do with fear: I know, from her many hints, that she has a Christmas gift to give me, and is expecting a gift from me in return.

She draws me to her bed and, the moment I am sitting upon it, she presents me with a large, flat parcel.

I open it, and I am taken aback. It is a suit, in the fashionable style Lord Howard used to affect, made from the finest stuffs, with a dove grey coat, a lilac waistcoat, and pale yellow breeches. It is entirely inappropriate for a man of my station—and temperament—and it must have cost a King's ransom.

“Put on the coat,” says Miss Wells; she is as excited as a small child.

I do so, raising my arms and turning full-circle to please her.

“It is perfect, Mr Haxby,” she says, bounding up from the bed to fuss with the lappets and straighten the cuffs.

“When shall I wear it?” I ask.

“When you are spying,” she says.

Her excitement would melt the staunchest of hearts; I pull her into my arms and kiss her with even more than my usual fervour.

When, at last, I release her, she looks up at me expectantly. 

I consider feigning ignorance, but I know that the fun would not be worth the cost. Instead, I take a small box from the pocket of my breeches.

Miss Wells frowns, for it is obvious what the box must contain. 

I hand it to her and she opens it.

The ring is not of great value, for I have another plan for my savings, but it is a pretty thing, chosen with care. 

Miss Wells stares at it.

“When His Grace is taken from us,” I say, voicing my thoughts of a few days earlier, for that is when my plan began to form, “and Sir Roderick is master here, you and I will, no doubt, lose our position, and...” 

I take a deep breath.

“Are you asking me to marry you, Mr Haxby?” says Miss Wells, quietly.

“Will you?”

“You would marry a harlot?”

“I would marry you.”

“And how should we live?” She lifts her chin, defiantly.

“I have a small legacy,” I say, “and some savings, and, God willing, I will have more put aside by the time it is needed—enough to give us a modest income.”

“I should have known,” she says. “But do not mention it again, Mr Haxby, and I shall do my best to forget it, for I do not want you thinking I have designs upon your money.”

She turns from me.

“ _Will you marry me?_ ” I insist.

Slowly, she turns back and, with her eyes glistening, and with that twitch of the lips that has always told me she is about to say something she is embarrassed to admit, she replies, “If you feel the same when the time comes, Mr Haxby, ask me again.” 

It is not the answer I had hoped for, but I accept it, knowing it is the most I can expect from her for now, and I give her my word that I will.

Then I take the box from her, pull out the ring, and slip it onto her finger. 

“Just for tonight,” I say.

Our congress is a sincere expression of affection—slow, tender, and not, I think, a sin, even on the eve of Our Lord's birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a very long time to write because I lost Mr Haxby's 'voice' for a while :-(
> 
> The question of whether Haxby would have procured Howard a girl had he been ordered to arose spontaneously in the last chapter, and I was sure that neither Charlotte nor Haxby would let it lie. 
> 
> I had the impression—I'm not sure from where—that a servant could not be held responsible for a crime committed on the orders of his master. Unfortunately, if you type 'master' and 'servant' into Google, Google is convinced you're asking about slavery, and if you manage to get past _that_ , it thinks you're asking about petty treason. (Petty treason was when a servant killed his or her master, a wife killed her husband, or a clergyman killed a clergyman of higher rank. It's what Justice Cunliffe accuses Charlotte of when he tells her she'll be burned. It's of interest to feminist historians because it's a chilling example of gender inequality—a husband killing a wife was 'only' murder, and the punishment for murder—hanging—was less severe than the punishment for petty treason). 
> 
> Eventually, I found the case of Mervyn Touchet, Earl of Castlehaven, who was executed in 1631 for ordering his servants to commit sodomy, but that proved misleading because sodomy was a special case; the servants were considered as guilty as their master and were also executed. 
> 
> Finally, I found _The Matrix of Derivative Criminal Liability_ , by Gabriel Hallevy (on Google Books), which traces the idea that a master is responsible for his servants' crimes (either because it's his job to keep them in order, or because they are his 'long arm') from ancient Rome to English common law. So, if I've understood it right, had Haxby procured a girl for Howard, and then disposed of her body, Haxby would have been the innocent agent, and not guilty in law. Until the 18th century, the master's order had to be explicit, but in the 18th century the law was changed and the order could be implicit or general. From a story point of view, it means I need to do some serious thinking about the Monster...
> 
> I also researched Georgian Christmas traditions, so most of what's described in this and the next chapter is pretty close, but where the details weren't clear, or were disappointing, I used artistic licence.
> 
> The chapter originally had a different title but Haxby suddenly popped his question, so I had to change it.


	19. In which Miss Wells and I find ourselves out-witted.

I awake with a start and, pushing myself up from the pillow, I look about me, but see nothing strange nor out of place.

Beside me, Miss Wells stirs, muttering, “Ask me again, Mr Haxby,” and I smile, for it seems she is dreaming of me. With a final glance around the room, I lie back, and draw her into my arms but, try as I might, I cannot get back to sleep, for I am plagued by thoughts of—

“What's buzzing so loud in that head of yours?” Miss Wells grumbles.

When I say nothing in reply, she frees herself from my arms and, turning, looks into my eyes. “You had me pinioned like the young Greek wrestler, Mr Haxby,” she says, referring to one of the paintings in His Grace's Great Gallery. She lifts her hand and shows me the ring. “Is it _this_ you regret?”

“No,” I reply, truthfully. 

“Then what is it?”

I sigh.

“ _What?_ ”

“I regret my birth, Miss Wells,” I admit, “which gave me a yearly income of eighty pounds instead of twenty thousand.”

Miss Wells laughs. “You would be the most niggardly of husbands, Mr Haxby,” she says, “had you fifty thousand! No, it is clear that _I_ must keep _you_.”

“You must... What?”

“I must keep you, Mr Haxby; _I_ ,”—she settles back in my arms and, although there is mirth in her voice, I do not believe she is speaking entirely in jest—“I must run a bawdy house. Somewhere where a woman like your Lady Caroline—”

“ _Lady Caroline?_ ”

“—can come for a really good fuck.” Her hand, which has been toying with the hairs on my chest, now travels down to my belly and discovers its mark; I find I need to swallow.

“You would run a bawdy house for _women_?”

“Why not?” Her hand begins moving, very slowly, up… and down… “The culls would be women, and the girls would be men. Some of the men would be soldiers, and would stand to _attention_ ”—she chuckles—“some would wear a mask and carry a _pistol_ ; and some, dressed in black, with snow-white linen, would bow and scrape, and hide their prickstand”—her fingertip circles, shamelessly, and it takes great effort to hold myself in check—“till, by some subtle sign, the lady showed she was ready—”

“Would this,” I ask, using certain muscles to press myself into her hand, “be that sign, Miss Wells?”

She answers me with a truly sinful smile. 

“—and _then_ ,” she says, “my man would push up her skirts”—she ceases her torture and, lifting her shift, gets astride me—“and he would pull her onto his prick”—I take her by the hips and draw her down—“and he would ravish her, Mr Haxby, paying no mind to her struggles, nor to her cries of outrage.”

“You,” I say, “never cry out in aught but”—I have gathered my strength, meaning to give a good account of myself, but Miss Wells halts me by pressing her hands upon my chest—“oh, dear God!”

“Would you,” she says, smiling down at me, “train them for me, Mr Haxby?

“Train whom?” I ask, for my mind is not at its sharpest.

“I know you have studied books.” 

She bends to kiss me, and her weight, shifting upon me, near kills me. 

“You are so prim,” she whispers, teasing my mouth with no more than a promise, “so proper, and yet you've taken pains to learn ways to pleasure me.”

Then she rises up again, and—oh, God!—I grit my teeth.

It is wicked, I know, for a man to lie prostrate whilst his woman does the work, but the pleasure it affords, as she moves upon me, with the utmost abandon, and my hands are free to reach up, under her shift, to her soft, ripe bosom—

“I'd need,” says Miss Wells, her body all a-shiver, “men like you, Mr Haxby; strange—handsome—oh—and good—good—ah!” 

She falls helplessly into her crisis.

…

I am still dressing when His Grace summons me.

“Merry Christmas, Haxby,” he says.

“Your Grace,” I reply, bowing low, “Merry Christmas.” 

I open my notebook and wait, respectfully, with my _porte-crayon_ poised, watching-but-not-watching as the valet, Mr Simpson, completes His Grace's _toilet_.

“I have a task for you, Haxby,” says His Grace, at last. “I want you to collect up a few things, suitable for the season, and...”

Eagerly, I take down his instructions! I could not ask for a better commission, for it will allow me to range about the house, fetching, carrying, and keeping a careful eye upon His Grace’s treasures, all the while keeping the other careful eye upon Sir Roderick and Miss Wells.

…

Christmas Day at Mereworth is a festive version of that event known as the 'kettle drum'.

The guests—His Grace's friends, and members of the local gentry, and of certain other, prosperous, local families—will arrive informally and, the servants having been 'banished' for the day, will wander about the house as they please, ‘fending for themselves’. 

It is naught but a great conceit, of course, for such ‘informality’ requires more effort on the part of the servants than five-and-twenty formal banquets—and, at present, everywhere is a-bustle.

The Entrance Hall, the Drawing Room, the Breakfast Room, the Small Dining Room—all are being re-decorated with fresh greenery—holly, mistletoe, laurels and rosemary—and with ornamental trees, brought out of the Orangerie in tubs, and embellished, on a whim of Miss Wells, with ribbons. 

In the Breakfast Room, Mr Chadwick is setting up some of his more robust apparatus, for he will be treating His Grace's guests to demonstrations of _scientism_. “If we end the day with nobody burnt or blistered,” he says, lifting a large flask from its case, “it will be a miracle—you’re a great one for praying, Mr Haxby; will you beseech Him for me?” 

In the Drawing Room, Mr Tye, the composer, is putting the harpsichord through its paces, for he will be playing and singing to delight His Grace's guests—and will turn the pages for any young lady who wishes to do the same.

In the Small Dining Room, Miss Wells is having the table laid with Christmas fare—a great Yorkshire pie, imported especially from that country, and enough of Mrs Brawne's game pies, mince-meat pies, spice cakes, jellies, and wafers to feed five thousand, besides bowls of exotic fruits, both fresh and sugared. 

And _I_ —following His Grace's instructions—am going from room to room, laying out items for his guests to enjoy—engravings of winter scenes, Chinese paintings of snow on mountainsides, and some of the most attractive volumes from His Grace's collection, including one small, priceless Book of Hours, dating, I believe, from the time of King Richard the Second, which I set upon a bookstand, open at a tiny, gilded painting of Our Lord, lying in the manger, with the Magi kneeling before him.

…

Miss Wells welcomes His Grace’s guests with a small gift, and some give her a gift in return. 

As Hostess, she waits upon them herself, offering them chocolate, tea, and, once the sun has set, wassail, cutting them slices of meat, which she serves with more enthusiasm than skill, and inviting them to help themselves to pies, cakes, ices and fruit.

(Invisible to the guests, an army of footmen is flitting hither and thither, silently restoring order, whisking away the soiled tableware, disposing of the broken pies and the melted ices, and replacing the curdled chocolate and the tepid tea).

Meanwhile, the guests are doing as they please: exploring the house and, despite the chilly weather, the gardens; pic-nicking upon the stairs; Hiding and Seeking in the Ball Room; playing and singing with Mr Tye; sparking, illuminating, and _electrifying_ themselves with the Prodigy; sending _me_ back and forth to the Library for additional prints and volumes—all in the highest of spirits.

Christmas Day is going merrily. 

…

“Mr Haxby...”

I am startled by the touch of Miss Wells's hand upon my arm and, even more so, by the jolt of emotion I feel as I turn, and our eyes meet.

I am not—as I believe I have said on more than one occasion—the sort of man who feels _happiness_ but, when I look at Miss Wells…

“...Miss Johnson and Miss Eliza Johnson,” she is saying, introducing two young ladies, who curtsey awkwardly. “His Grace is most impressed with their knowledge of botany, and would like them to see the Orangerie.” She smiles upon them, and the poor little creatures melt for joy. “His Grace asks if you will be so kind as to escort them.”

“I shall be honoured,” I reply, and bow to the Misses Johnson.

…

The Orangerie is as hot, and wet, and stifling as always, but the two young ladies do not appear to feel any discomfort. They point excitedly at various plants, marvelling at the shape and colour of the foliage, and they ask me questions which I, for the most part, am unable to answer, though I can point out the _pineapples_ in their special warm beds, and I can explain His Grace's latest experiment, designed to test the properties of different _soils_ (for I have heard a great deal said upon the subject).

The Misses Johnson are plain, and the simplicity of their costume betrays their station in life, but they are intelligent, and their manners modest without being coy, and I find myself warming to them, and finding their company quite enjoyable. 

We are passing into the farther part of the hot house, where the narrowness of the path necessitates that the young ladies walk ahead of me, when both suddenly stop and, moving as one, turn back.

They are blushing.

“Miss Johnson,” I say, addressing the elder girl, “whatever is the matter?”

Miss Johnson is unable to answer me.

Taking care not to distress her any further, I step past her, and look ahead. 

Standing behind a large clump of ferns—so that they might have supposed themselves concealed—are a man and a woman: his hands are upon her waist, her head is tilted upwards, and, as I watch, he leans in and kisses her, pulling the lower part of her body hard against his.

“Please wait for me beside the botany table,” I tell the Misses Johnson, quietly. “I shall not be long.”

With the girls safely away, I stride up to the couple.

“Stop at once,” I command.

The man draws back and slowly turns towards me, and—with some surprise—I recognise him. He is Sir Roderick’s man, Mr Swain, and the girl he is half way to seducing is one of my pupils, Nancy Crowe.

“This young woman,” I say, though Mr Swain is several inches taller than I, and has a most insolent expression upon his face, “is a servant in His Grace's household. In dishonouring _her_ , you dishonour _him_. You will unhand her at once.”

Mr Swain replies with a sour smile and, for a moment, I think he will strike me, but then he takes a step away, and raises his hands as though in surrender.

“Get yourself to the kitchens,” I tell Nancy and, as she scurries off, I notice another figure, standing further down the path. 

My most troublesome pupil, Fanny Payne, has been watching her friend’s adventure.

“Do you not have work to do?” I demand.

Fanny bobs an impudent curtsey, and hurries away.

…

Since their visit to the Orangerie has been spoiled, I ask the Misses Johnson if they would like to see the Library and His Grace's collection of botanical books. This proves a great success and, by the time I return the young ladies to their parents, I believe the afternoon’s unpleasantness has been forgotten.

…

I am gathering up the Chinese paintings—most of the guests having left—when Mr Chadwick comes hurrying into the Drawing Room.

“Have _you_ got him?” he asks.

“Got whom?”

“Sir Roderick. He has been putting me on my mettle all day but, the moment I began dismantling the electric bells, he disappeared.”

Our eyes seek out Miss Wells. 

She is engaged in some flirtatious conversation with Lord Robey, His Grace’s greatest friend, and it is heart-warming to see how her gentle teasing makes the old gentleman glow with pleasure…

“She is safe for now,” I say to the Prodigy. “Go and see to your things, Mr Chadwick. I will look for Sir Roderick.”

…

I find the Dissembler in the Library. He is slipping a small volume into his coat pocket, and makes no attempt to hide his actions from me.

“I believe, sir,” I say, closing the door behind me, “that you have inadvertently misplaced His Grace’s Book of Hours—I think,” I add, “that you will find it in your pocket.”

Sir Roderick’s eyes narrow.

“The _lackey_ ,” he says, “who is tupping my uncle's prize _whore_ has the nerve to accuse _me_ of theft?”

I am momentarily shocked into silence… 

Then, “I believe, sir,” I repeat, with a firmness that takes even me by surprise, “that you will find His Grace’s Book of Hours in your pocket.”

Sir Roderick brings out the volume and, holding it at arm’s length, drops it.

I stifle a cry of dismay as the little book falls to the floor, and lies there in a heap, like a broken bird.

“I will tell my uncle how badly you treat his books,” says the Dissembler—adding, as he opens the Library door to leave, “and he will hear of your debauchery—when it suits me.”

…

Carefully, I lift the Book of Hours and examine it. Some of the pages are creased, and there is a small tear in one of them, but nothing—thank God, for the book was made in praise of Him—that damages any of the text or illuminations, and nothing that our usual bookbinder cannot easily repair.

…

I do not go down to supper; instead, I wait, impatiently, until the last of His Grace’s guests has left, and His Grace and his nephew have gone to bed, and the servants have retired, and then I go to Miss Wells's room and, using the chair from her dressing table, I barricade the door.

“Miss Wells,” I begin, turning—only to find that she is already there, beside me.

“ _Shhhhh_ ,” she says, pressing her fingers to my mouth. “Whatever it is, fuck me first.”

“But—”

“If ever I needed it hard, Mr Haxby,” she says, drawing my head closer to hers, “it’s tonight.” Her lips brush my cheek. “I need to feel you pounding me,” she whispers; “I need to hear you straining to plant your seed inside me…”

_The woman would make an angel rampant._

_I_ cannot resist.

…

Afterwards, whilst Miss Wells is sleeping peacefully, I lie awake.

Her desire for me was real, and honestly expressed—I know that—but I also know that there was a time when she might have said those very words to _any_ man whose jaded appetite had required encouragement…

And, suddenly, I understand The Spartans as I never have before: they do not want a harlot, a girl who has seen all, and done all, and whose disillusion shows in her eyes, whatever her mouth might be saying. 

What they want is a _respectable_ girl, like one of the Misses Johnson—a girl who blushes at the sight of man's hand upon a woman's waist. They want to take her innocence and break it, for they _need_ to see her staring at them in disbelief, _need_ to see her shrinking from them in terror, _need_ to see her struggling beneath them, and hear her screaming in pain—

“Mr Haxby?”

I realise that, in my horror, I have been crushing Miss Wells against my chest; I loosen my hold.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

“The Spartans,” I say.

She raises a hand and strokes my cheek; it is an affectionate gesture, and I press my lips to her palm.

“What was it you wanted to say to me earlier?”

“Sir Roderick knows about us,” I reply, and I tell her what he said to me in the Library. “When I awoke yesterday, I was sure that someone had entered the room, but there was no one there—now I know it was he, or”—for some reason, the idea is even more appalling—“his man, Swain.”

“It doesn't matter, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, soothingly. “You are here with Malmesbury's blessing.”

“Yes; but why would Sir Roderick be in your room?”

“I think we both know the answer to that!”

“I did not mean the question literally, Miss Wells: suppose I had not been there?”

“Then, doubtless, I should have woken with him on top of me,” she says.

“And what would you have done?”

Miss Wells sighs. “Whether I’d fought him or fucked him, Mr Haxby, it would have made little odds: Sir Roderick would have told Malmesbury that I had betrayed him.”

I cannot help but remember the times when _I_ accused Miss Wells of betraying my master, Lord Howard: first, with the Irish lout—which I now know she did not—and, then, with _me_ —which she did, but only with my—

“Are you _certain_ ,” I say, “that His Grace would take that dissembler’s word over yours? For my part, I do not believe I have ever seen him show any special regard for his nephew, whereas _you_ are his heart’s delight.”

Miss Wells pats my arm before reaching for her box of marchpane. 

“It was my first impression of them, Mr Haxby,” she says, offering me a sweetmeat, which I refuse. “The very first time I saw them together, I felt”—she bites the marchpane—“no, I could _see_ that, for Malmesbury, Sir Roderick was the son he’d never had, and I realised… Well, a son is far above a harlot.”

“Hmm,” I say, for, in my experience, a son is not above the cat.

“I’ve always trusted my first impressions, Mr Haxby,” Miss Wells continues, taking another bite of marchpane. “And now I realise it’s because they’re based on what we observe, and not upon what we think we know.”

“His Grace would be proud of your _scientific_ thinking, Miss Wells.”

“Mmm,” she says. “Besides, the stakes are high, so I must play cautiously.”

“A pity,” I say, “that you did not learn _that_ lesson sooner.” 

Miss Wells knows I am referring to her former gambling habits—which cost Lord Howard much of his wife’s fortune, and cost me, as his man of business, anguish beyond measure—and she retaliates by tickling me, making me laugh and thrash about.

“Now that I know your Achilles heel, Mr Haxby,” she says, when, at last, she relents, kissing me with marchpane-flavoured lips, “you can be sure I shall use it often!” Then, unexpectedly replying to my earlier question, she adds: “I would have fought him off, and then I would have faced the consequences. I am _done_ with letting men take what they will from me.” 

I flatter myself that, perhaps, her almost-betrothal to me has had some bearing on that decision.

She settles down beside me, and I feel her hand slide across my belly... 

“You are like marchpane,” she says.

“I hope I am _somewhat_ firmer than that,” I reply.

Miss Wells laughs. “I meant that having had one piece of you makes me want more, Mr Haxby!”

…

“I think,” says Miss Wells, much later, “that, in my bawdy house, I will have marchpane pricks for my lady-culls to suck upon. I’ll have them made in different shapes and sizes, just like my men’s—”

“ _Miss Wells!_ ”

…

The following afternoon, His Grace having presented the servants with their St Stephen’s Day Christmas boxes, we congregate outside to bid farewell to Sir Roderick and watch his carriage pull away. Then His Grace gives the servants leave to spend the rest of the day preparing for their own festivities, later that evening.

…

I go to the Servants’ Hall to wish everyone well but, having no appetite for Christmas porridge and plum pudding, and having no desire to play Hood Man Blind or Hot Cockles, nor to dance to pipe and fiddle, I am in the Library, writing orders for the bookbinder, when Miss Wells finds me.

She closes the door and, leaning back against it, regards me, with a smile that might be described as... _seductive_.

Miss Wells is not, I think, by her up-bringing nor, perhaps, by her nature, inclined to accept a proposal of marriage but, ever since she did-not-quite accept mine, I believe that her relation to me has changed, and that she, too, now feels that invisible... _flux_ between us, which, for me, has acted upon us since our first experience of carnal congress—

A noise outside alerts us to an imminent arrival, and Miss Wells springs from the door as it flies open and young Nancy Crowe flings herself into the Library, crying, “Mr Haxby! Oh, Mr Haxby!”

Miss Wells and I exchange puzzled glances.

“They've gone,” says Nancy to me, with a great, gasping sob. “ _Gone!_ ”

“Who has gone?” I ask.

She answers me with a deal of incoherent noise, accompanied by a fresh flood of tears. Miss Wells takes her by the arm and guides her to a seat, and, crouching down beside her, attempts to instil some calm in her.

“Nancy,” she says, firmly. “Nancy, listen to me! Mr Haxby cannot help you if you don't tell him what’s happened.”

Nancy takes more gulps of air; she has, at least, ceased her wailing.

“Nancy,” I say, as sympathetically as I can, “is it Fanny?” 

“Yes!” she cries. “Yes, Mr Haxby! She’s gone to London with Sir Roderick and Mr Swain! She’s gone and left me!” 

She pulls something from her pocket and holds it out to me to me. It is a folded sheet of exercise paper, and I recognise the childish hand in which _Nancy_ has been written upon it. Over the girl’s head, my eyes meet Miss Wells's; I am sure that mine must betray the same mix of anger and astonishment as hers.

“I saw Nancy and Fanny with Sir Roderick's man in the Orangerie,” I admit. “Had I realised...” 

I unfold the paper. “ _I am off to live in the towne_ ,” I read aloud, “ _with Sr. Rod. Do not tell any bodie where I have gon. Fanny Payne._ ”

It seems that, besides having slighted Fanny and, innocently, furnished her with a reason to act foolishly, I have also given her the means to boast of her folly.

There is a long silence. 

Then Miss Wells whispers, “Sir Roderick cannot be...? Can he?”

“A Spartan?” I sigh. “We are starting to see Spartans round every corner, Miss Wells… But, whether he is or no, his intentions cannot be honourable, and a girl ruined and cast aside might just as well be”—I look down at Nancy's quivering form, and mouth, silently—“dead.” 

I take out my watch. “They have nearly two hours’ start.”

“You mean we might follow them?” Miss Wells is already rising to her feet. “Come, Nancy, quickly,” she says, “we must put you to bed.”

“I will ask Mrs Coates to send a girl to sit with her,” I say.

“Then I will ask His Grace for permission to take the carriage.”

“Good. And I will find Jackson.”

…

Less than half an hour later, we set off in pursuit.

Jackson—relieved, I think, to be rescued from the evening’s fun and games—has removed the rails, the roof seats, and the boot from His Grace's fastest carriage, and has harnessed two additional horses, for extra speed. 

We brace ourselves as he cracks the whip and the horses thunder off, galloping down the long, straight road through Mereworth Park, careering out of the Great Gate, and heading for London.

Miss Wells, without consulting _me_ , has ransacked my wardrobe and dressed herself in my old, worn suit, which she has covered with her warmest winter cloak, giving her that androgynous freedom and ease of movement I always find so disconcerting.

“What did you tell His Grace?” I ask.

“That we believe Fanny has hidden herself away in Sir Roderick's carriage.”

“That may yet prove true,” I say.

“Hmm,” says Miss Wells. 

She is no more convinced of it than I am, and we both are sensible that, in pursuing Sir Roderick and lying to His Grace, she and I have put ourselves in a most difficult—

“ _Sir Roderick_ has put us in this position, Mr Haxby,” says Miss Wells, firmly. “ _He_ has done the wrong; we… we have done a _lesser_ wrong!” But her usual sparkle is gone: I think it is the first time she has ever deceived His Grace—

“He knew I was lying to him,” she admits, and I see tears in her eyes, “but, still, he let me take the carriage—oh!” She curses as Jackson races through a series of turns, and we are thrown this way and that. 

Under different circumstances, I might have moved beside her and held her in my arms but, since, for us, strong emotions usually lead—

“Not _now_ , Mr Haxby!”

Moments later, and to my horror, Miss Wells rises and, lowering the window, leans out. 

I leap up, and throw my arms about her waist, holding her fast as the carriage lurches.

“We’re approaching Mereburn Market,” she says. “I only hope the bridge is clear—how long has it been now?”

Still holding her in one arm, I fumble out my pocket watch and attempt to read the dial. “Almost three hours since they left, and—ah!”

“Mr Haxby,” Miss Wells says with great dignity, stiffening in my arms as though I, and not the action of the carriage, had been responsible for thrusting myself against her, “I have told you that now is not the time.”

I release her, and we fall back in our seats.

“If Lady Aphra were here,” says Miss Wells, some time later, “she could perform a wonder of _mathematicks_ and tell us how long it will take us to catch them.”

“Well,” I reply, employing my own meagre accounting skills, “if Sir Roderick is travelling at ten miles an hour, and we at twenty, it will take him three hours to reach London, and us one hour and a half. Since he started at two o’clock, and we at nearly half past four, he will be there by five o’clock, and we—”

“We will never catch him!” says Miss Wells.

“Unless he stops, and for good while,” I agree. 

“But if we don’t catch up with him before he reaches London…”

I reach out and take her hand. “He may have ruined her already, Miss Wells,” I point out, gently.

She looks at me with the most peculiar expression. “I’d be surprised if that girl wasn’t _ruined_ some time ago, Mr Haxby. No, I mean that, if we don’t catch up with him before he reaches London, we can’t follow him to wherever he intends to keep her.” 

Outside, Jackson cracks the whip and horses plough on down the Barnet Road, notorious for its ruts and holes, shaking Miss Wells and me about like dice in a cup.

“If all he wants is to fuck her,” she explains, hanging on to one of the leather straps, “he won’t keep her afterwards—for a man like him, throwing the girl aside is part of the pleasure. So, if he ‘ruins’ her in the carriage, we’ll probably find her wandering at the roadside, and if he waits until he gets her home to ‘ruin’ her, we’ll find her in Wentworth Street.” She is referring to the street in which Sir Roderick’s town house stands. “Then we’ll just grab her, take her back to Mereworth, lie _again_ to His Grace, and pray to God that, in nine months’ time, Fanny has nothing to show for her adventure.”

“Dear God, Miss Wells,” I say. I assume that the praying will be my responsibility, but I wonder what part I will be expected to play in the ‘grabbing’, and whether _that_ will be as easy as Miss Wells seems to think.

“…but if Sir Roderick _is_ a Spartan,” she is saying, “he must keep her hidden somewhere until the others are ready for her.”

“At his house,” I suggest. “Or—or, perhaps, at _the_ house?”

“Perhaps.” Miss Wells shrugs. “Or perhaps somewhere else altogether.”

“Which we would have to find by following him there.”

Miss Wells nods. 

She is looking tired. Braving her anger, I take advantage of a more even stretch of road to cross the carriage and, sitting down beside her, I take her in my arms; she lays her head upon my shoulder.

“I do not like Fanny,” she says. “Not at all.”

“Nor do I,” I reply. “But nobody deserves to be used like Maria Elton was used, and I believe that, if anything, our antipathy to Fanny Payne is making us all the more determined to save her.”

And, as if the Devil has heard my words, the carriage suddenly slows…

 

  
'Mereworth' and the road to London, showing about a third of the journey. The map is by John Cary and is dated 1787 (about twenty years after the story is set). It's a glimpse, I think, of a world in which some very rich, incredibly high-status people have sort of colonised their own country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing!
> 
> I've been wondering how Haxby could have written on the visiting card Charlotte gave to Rosalie Farrow back in Chapter 8. This website—http://www.goosebay-workshops.com/Writing—sells reproductions of 18th century writing equipment, including a travelling inkwell with two little quills—I'm sure Haxby must have one of those!—and a handy porte-crayon—a sort of mechanical pencil.
> 
> There's more information about kettle drums here: https://mrsdaffodildigresses.wordpress.com/2017/02/22/the-kettle-drum-and-the-winter-picnic-1874/.
> 
> When Lord Howard called Charlotte 'the pineapple of Great Britain', it seems he was being quite complimentary, at least in one respect: growing a pineapple in 18th century England took three years and entailed vast amounts of labour. Special pineapple pits were heated using tons of horse manure, urine, and tanner's bark. People who couldn't afford to grow their own pineapples could rent them for parties and return them uneaten. (https://julianstockwin.com/2013/08/24/for-rent-one-pineapple/) In 2012, a pineapple grown using traditional methods was valued at £10,000 (!), so Howard's gift was worth much more than the pearls Charlotte wanted, though it would have been a lot less durable!
> 
> I thought it was time to learn more about carriages. It turns out that the type of carriage I've always imagined Charlotte and Haxby travelling in is called a Park Drag. You can see one here: http://www.staffordshirecarriages.org.uk/park-drag/. The same collection has a Britzchka Chariot (http://www.staffordshirecarriages.org.uk/britzchka-chariot/), designed for touring, in which the seats can be converted into beds! For this chapter's mad dash to London, I imagine C&H using something like the Dyott Family Coach (http://www.staffordshirecarriages.org.uk/dyott-coach/), which was probably 'custom-made to meet the requirements of the family, incorporating features not found on any one coach to make it more flexible', and which can be drawn by either two or four horses—I'm sure His Grace must have had something similar made, built especially for speed. He might even have designed it himself!
> 
> I also decided it was time to work out exactly where Mereworth is located. I've always imagined it about 30 miles to the north west of Central London, which would place it near St Albans—where, it turns out, there's a large estate called Gorhambury, which, in addition to the Romantic ruins of a Tudor house, contains the remains of a Roman theatre! (http://www.gorhamburyestate.co.uk/The-Roman-Theatre) Gorhambury House, though, wasn't built until 1777-84. And I imagine Mereworth House looking more like Blenheim Palace. (https://www.blenheimpalace.com/)


End file.
